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THEODOSIA  BURR. 
(  The  Nas:'s  Head  Portrait) 


®If^  Sgrte 


BY 


l^tlt^  Jr^slfmat^r  ftcnl 


P 

Co 


flicmpang,  N^m  fork 


Copyrighted,    1905, 


BY 


BETTIE    FRESHWATER   POOL. 


All  Rights  Reserved, 


To  THE 

Memory  of  My  Brother, 

The  Late  Hon.  Walter  F.  Pool, 

This  Book  is 

Most  Lovingly  Dedicated 

BY 

THE  AUTHOR. 


C0NTE1\  TS. 


PAGE 

I.— "The  Eyrie" 1-^ 

II. — The   Nag's    Head    Picture   of   Theodosia 

Burr 18  "^ 

III. — The  Shadow  of  the  Past 26  - 

IV. — Joe  Pi>'etop's  "Marse  Jeemes" 29 

V. — On  the  Amazon 40 

VI. — Divided 47 

VII. — Little  Marse  Hal 51 

VIII.— Poems  : 

Angel  of  My  Gethsemane 68 

Summer  Twilight    69 

The  Will-o'-the-Wisp 70 

Our  Flower  and  Star 71 

Dreams 72 

Song 73 

De  Flea 74 

Little  Elsie 75 

My  Dear  Sunny  Southland 76 

Thou  art    Sleeping 77 

The  Grippe 78 

In  God's  Hands 83 

My  Love  is  all  around  Thee 85 

IX. — The  Monstrosity  (by  Gaston  Pool) 86 


I. 

"THE  EYRIE." 

When  I  bought  the  Shirley  farm  I  carried  my 
bride  to  the  Eyrie,  the  old-fashioned  irregular  man- 
sion on  Pasquotank  river,  that  years  ago  had  been 
the  home  of  the  Shirleys. 

This  old  place  has  a  romantic  charm  for  me, 
so  remote  it  is  from  the  noise  and  strife  of  the 
busy  world ;  so  restful  it  looks,  with  its  background 
of  stately  pines,  and  its  elm-shaded  lawn  dotted 
with  buttercups,  daisies  and  white  clover. 

That  beautiful  sheet  of  water,  Pasquotank  river, 
flows  not  a  hundred  yards  from  our  door.  In  sun- 
shine and  in  storm  it  is  a  delight  to  watch  the 
w^hite-winged  ships  sail  by  on  their  way  to  the  har- 
bor a  few  miles  distant,  to  listen  to  the  murmur 
of  the  rippling  water,  and  see  great  flocks  of  birds 
silhouetted  against  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky. 

This  picturesque  grove  of  stately  old  elms,  pines 
and  sycamores,  festooned  with  graceful  garlands 
of  gray  moss,  and  odorous  with  the  scent  of  jas- 
mine, wild  honey-suckle  and  eglantine,  is  a  place 
to  see  visions  and  dream  dreams. 

I  spend  many  an  idle  hour  seated  on  the  gnarled 
roots  of  a  huge  oak  tree  which  grows  near  the 
edge  of  the  water,  with  the  woman  I  love  by  my 
side,  drinking  in  all  the  beauty  and  charm  of  this 
restful,  picturesque  spot. 


2  The    Eyrie, 

Sometimes  Uncle  Pete,  an  aged  negro,  once  a 
devoted  slave  of  the  Shirleys,  beguiles  the  time 
with  quaint  stories  of  those  halcyon  days  "befo' 
de  war.'^  Those  days  of  romance  and  chivalry, 
with  their  somber  setting  of  storm  and  blood-shed 
and  tears,  stand  out  in  bold  relief  on  the  can- 
vas of  Uncle  Pete's  memory :  and  when  in  a 
reminiscent  mood  he  likes  nothing  better  than  to 
regale  an  appreciative  listener  with  legend  and 
story  from  the  vast  store  of  his  treasured  collec- 
tion. 

Let  me  give  in  his  own  words  the  story  of  the 
Shirleys;  should  I  substitute  my  own  language  in 
place  of  his  quaint  dialect,  the  story,  I  am  sure, 
would  lose  half  its  interest. 

"You  ax  me  huccum  dis  place  call  de  Eyrie. 
De  place  tuck  its  name  frum  er  big  eagle's  nes' 
whuPs  been  in  dat  pine  thicket  yonder  better'n  er 
hundred  years.  Dar  dem  bu'ds  lays  der  eggs  an' 
hatches  der  young  year  a'ter  year;  an'  you  better 
not  pester  um  'dout  you  want  ter  git  yo'  eyes  to' 
out  wid  dem  sharp  claws.  'Bout  ten  years  ago  dem 
eagles  tuck  er  notion  ter  mo'  dat  nes'  ter  ernudder 
tree  close  by.  Dat  wery  nex'  day  dar  come  up  er 
terrible  thunderstorm,  an'  de  lightnin'  struck  dat 
tree  whar  de  eagle's  nes'  been  mo'd  from,  an'  bu'nt 
it  smack  ter  de  groun'.  Eagles  got  a  heap  mo' 
sense'n  folks.  Dey  know  jis'  when  dat  storm  com- 
in'  up,  dat's  huccum  dey  mo'  dat  nes'  jis'  in  de 
nick  er  time. 

"Marse  Joe  Shirley  had  dat  house  built,  an'  dar 
he  lib  twell  he  die;  den  de  place  wuz  sole  an' 
strangers  been  libin'  dar  eber  sense.  My  little 
ole  hut  standin'  ober  yonder  yit.     I  hopes  de  Lord 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  3 

guine  let  me  lib  dar  twell  He  calls  me  away  frum 
dis  heer  worl'  ter  jine  ole  Marster  an'  de  chillim 
up  dar  in  de  New  Jerusalem.  I  wish  you  could 
er  seen  dis  place  'fo'  de  war.  Ober  yonder  ter  de 
lef  wuz  de  quarter'  whar  all  de  black  folks  stay; 
piles  an'  piles  er  little  white-washed  houses  jist 
ez  neat  ez  er  pin.  De  Obeseer  an'  his  wife  lib  in 
er  bigger  house  beyant  de  thicket;  an'  dar  ter  de 
right  wuz  de  big  barn,  an'  de  stables  chock  full  er 
horses  an'  mules. 

"De  Shirlevs  wuz  some  er  de  quality.  Marse 
Joe  wuz  'mos'  rich  ez  er  king.  He  don't  mess 
his  time  wid  no  po'  white  trash,  I  kin  tell  you  dat. 
'Pear  lack  he  jis'  ez  proud  ez  he  hin  be  'fo'  Marse 
Tom  wuz  born:  but  a'ter  dat  he  so  sot  up  he  can't 
hardly  walk,  sho'  'nuff.  He  so  happy  kaze  he 
got  er  son  ter  bear  'is  name,  an'  heir  all  dat  prop- 
erty. 

"An'  when  Miss  Xellie  come  erlong,  he  say  he 
got  de  two  beautifules'  chillun  in  de  whole  kentry, 
dafs  sartin.  Dey  bof  jis'  lack  dey  Ma,  wid  dem 
yaller  curls  an'  white  skin. 

"Lord !  how  dem  chillun  did  lub  one  nurr. 
Wliene'er  you  see  Marse  Tom  dar  you  see  Miss 
Xellie,  too.  She  f oiler  him  in  de  woods  ter  look 
fer  beech-nuts  an'  chinkepins :  she  go  out  in  de 
snow  wid  'im  ter  set  traps  fer  de  snow-bu'ds ;  she 
kin  climb  trees  'mos'  good  ez  he  kin,  an'  ride  hors'- 
back  'dout  no  saddle,  too.  Wonder  she  ain't  break 
'er  neck  long  ergo,  she  so  wentur'some. 

^^When  dey  git  big  ernuf  ter  go  ter  school,  one 
day  Marse  Tom  git  ter  fight  wid  er  boy  'mos'  big 
ez  two  er  him.  Dat  boy  had  'im  down,  beatin'  'im, 
when  up  Jumps  Miss  K'ellie  an'  grabs  er  big  light- 


4  The    Eyrie, 

^ood  knot,  an'  starts  fer  to  bu'st  dat  bo/s  head 
open  wid  it.  Dat  boy  name  Jack  Gray.  When 
he  see  Miss  Nellie  comin'  wid  dat  light-'ood  knot 
he  jumps  up  an'  run;  den  he  laff  an'  tell  er  he 
ain't  guine  beat  dat  little  brurr  er  hern  no  mo'. 
Miss  Nellie  tell  'im  he  better  not,  do  she  guine  kill 
'im  sho'  'nuff. 

"Dem  chillun  git  mo'  an'  mo'  wrapt  up  in  one 
nurr  ez  dey  grow  older,  in  'tickler  a'ter  ole  Mistis 
ceasted.     Dey  jis'  lack  twins. 

"When  Marse  Tom  went  ter  Chapel  Hill  ter 
College,  Miss  Nellie  'mos'  cry  'er  eyes  out.  She 
so  lonesome  I  feared  she  guine  pine  erway  an' 
die.  Dat  Jack  Gray  alus  hangin'  'roun'  her,  say 
he  guine  teck  Marse  Tom's  place  while  he  gone. 
She  say  nobody  can't  take  Marse  Tom's  place.  Dat 
Jack  had  'is  eye  sot  on  Miss  Nellie  eber  sence  dat 
day  she  guine  knock  'is  brains  out  wid  dat  light- 
'ood  knot,  when  dey  wuz  chilluns. 

"Marse  Joe  'gun  ter  see  whut  dat  chap  up  ter, 
presney.  He  tell  Miss  Nellie  she  got  ter  put  er 
stop  ter  'is  comin'  dar,  'dout  he  guine  to  it  hisse'f . 
Miss  Nellie  jis'  hilt  her  head  up  an'  ain't  say 
whut  she  guine  do.  Ole  Marster  he  ain't  say  no 
mo'  right  erway :  he  jis'  watchin'.  When  he  see 
dat  feller  ain't  stop  comin'  he  git  ez  mad  ez  thun- 
der. Den  one  day  he  had  it  out  wid  Jack  Gray, 
an'  ferbid  'im  ter  step  'is  foot  in  dat  house  ergin. 
Jack  say  he  lub  Miss  Nellie  an'  Miss  Nellie  lub 
him,  an'  he  say  he  made  up  'is  mind  he  guine  mar'y 
'er  some  day.  He  tell  Marse  Joe  he  needn't  hole 
his  head  so  high  jis'  'cause  he's  rich,  dat  he  jis' 
ez  good  ez  he  is,  ef  he  ain't  got  ez  much  money. 
He  talk  so  sa'sy  dat  Marse  Joe  jis'  slam  de  doo' 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  5 

in  'is  face  an'  don't  say  no  mo'.  Den  he  an'  Miss 
Nellie  has  it  out.  He  tell  her  dat  ef  dat  common- 
no'count  feller  eber  steps  his  foot  in  his  house 
ergin,  he  gnine  shoot  him  down  lack  er  dog. 

"Den  Miss  Nellie  write  Jack  Gray  er  letter  an' 
tell  'im  whnt  her  Pa  say,  an'  beg  'im  not  ter  come 
nigh  her  no  mo'.  Den  she  walk  de  floo'  er  her 
room  an'  cry  all  night,  Dinah  say,  an'  'clar'  her 
heart  done  broke. 

"Not  long  a'ter  dat  Marse  Tom  come  home  from 
college,  den  Miss  Nellie  'peared  ter  be  happy  fer 
er  while.  She  proud  er  Marse  Tom  now  sho'  'nuff, 
kaze  he  done  graderwated  an'  got  fust  on  all  his 
studies.  Ole  Marster's  prouder  'n  eber  now,  kaze 
he  got  sich  er  smart  son.  He  hole  'is  head  high 
now  sho'  'nuff .  Lord !  ef  we  didn't  ha'  good  times 
dat  summer,  I'll  hush !  Sich  er  dancin'  an'  feast- 
in',  sich  piles  er  company  you  neber  did  see !  De 
sun  wuz  shinin'  den  sho'  'nuff,  we  wa'n't  studyin' 
'bout  no  time  when  de  shaders  guine  fall,  an'  de 
light  an'  de  joy  done  gone  clean  erway.  Dat 
time  wuz  er  comin'  do,  fast  ernuff. 

"De  war  cloud  getherin'  right  den,  an'  hit  guine 
break  right  ober  our  heads  'f 0''  we  know  it.  Presney 
down  hit  come  wid  er  smash,  an'  Marse  Tom  done 
gone  ter  Eo'noke  Islan'  ter  fight  de  Yankees.  De 
whole  kentry  wuz  swarmin'  wid  Yankees  an'  buf- 
ferlo's  an'  g'rillers.  Yo'  life  wa'n't  wurth  nuffin' 
dem  days. 

"But  I  ain't  guine  talk  erbout  de  war, — you 
knows  all  erbout  dat, — I  guine  tell  you  'bout  Miss 
Nellie  an'  Jack  Gray,  an'  de  quiltin'  party. 

"Dat  Jack  he  ain't  come  nigh  Marse  Joe  no 
ino'5  but  he  meet  Miss  Nellie  at  all  de  parties,  an' 


6  The    Eyrie, 

she  'low  'im  ter  set  by  'er  an'  talk  ter  'er,  all  he 
please;  but  ole  Marster  don^t  know  nnthin'  ^boiit 
dat. 

"In  dem  days  de  ladies  gin  big  quiltin'  parties, 
an'  a'ter  de  quiltin'  wuz  done  come  de  snpper  an' 
de  fiddlin'  an'  de  dancin'.  I  knows  yen's  heered 
erbout  all  dat.  Ole  Miss  Commander  whut  libbed 
down  on  Little  Eiber  wuz  gittin'  up  one  er  dem  big 
quiltin'  parties;  an'  Miss  Nellie  an'  'er  young  lady 
frum  town — name  Miss  Fannie  Black — whar  wuz 
wisitin'  'er  wuz  'wited.  Incose  I  had  ter  take 
um  ter  de  party  in  de  big  kerridge,  in  style. 

"Dar  wuz  er  big  crowd  dar  dat  night,  an'  things 
wuz  lively,  I  tell  you.  But  low  an'  behole !  'Long 
'bout  ten  o'clock  dat  Jack  Gray  rid  up  wid  Mr. 
Harris,  whut's  er  magistrate,  an'  'fo'  anybody  kin 
say  Jack  Eobinson,  dar  be  er  weddin'  right  dar. 
Dat  rascal.  Jack  Gray,  done  'swade  Miss  Nellie  ter 
mar'y  him  den  an'  dar,  an'  he  done  gone  an'  fetch 
dat  magistrate  'fo'  anybody  but  Miss  Nellie 
'specion  whut  he  up  ter. 

"A'ter  de  marriage  wuz  ober  she  come  in  de 
kitchen  lookin'  puty  ez  er  picture.  She  mick  er 
fine  bow  ter  me,  an'  say  (puttin'  her  han'  on  Jack 
Gray's  arm)  : 

"  TJncle  Pete,  'low  me  ter  'duce  you  ter  my  hus- 
ban',  Mr.  Jack  Gray.  I  shill  not  trouble  you  ter 
tak'  me  home.  My  husband  will  tak'  me  ter 
his  home  at  de  Cedars,  whar'  we  shill  be  glad 
ter  hab  you  come  ter  see  us  when  you  will ' 

"I  ain't  say  nuttin\  I  jis'  sot  dar  so  skeered 
I  'mos'  dead,  my  jaw  done  drap ;  kaze  I  speck  Marse 
Joe  guine  kill  me  good  fashion  when  I  tell  him  de 
news.     I  shan't  neber  fergit  dat  night!     Sich  er 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  7 

time  as  we  had  when  I  gits  home,  an'  brings  dem 
tidin's!  Marse  Joe  jis'  walks  de  fioo'  all  night 
'long,  he  ain't  sleep  one  wink,  an'  I  ain't  nuther. 
But\e  ain't  kill  me,  he  so  mad  wid  dat  Jack  Gray 
an'  Miss  Nellie  he  ain't  studyin'  'bout  me. 

'TDat  night  Marse  Joe  writ  ter  Miss  Nellie,  an' 
tell  'er  his  doo'  done  shet  on  her  frnm  dat  time 
fo'th,  dat  she  ain't  no  da'ter  er  hisn  no  longer.  Den 
he  write  ter  Marse  Tom,  an'  tell  him  whut  his 

sister  done. 

"Poor  ole  Marster!  his  heart  'mos'  broke  'bont 
Miss  Nellie,  but  he  won't  'low  nobody  ter  call  her 

name  no  mo', 

"Not  many  weeks  a'ter  dat  de  big  boat  whar 
dey  call  de  "Spauldin' "  come  np  frum  Eo'noke 
Islan'  an'  fotch  de  Southern  pris'ners.  Pore  Marse 
Tom  got  wounded  in  de  lef  shoulder,  an'  had  ter 
stey  home  er  long  time,  an'  be  nursed  twell  he  git 
well.  Ole  Marster  so  glad  ter  ha'  his  boy  home 
ergin'  dat  he  che'rs  right  up  an'  am  ez  lively  ez 

er  cricket.  .  , 

"But  I  see  Marse  Tom  is  pmm'  fer  his  sister. 
When  he  git  by  hisse'f  he  look  so  lonesome  an'  sad, 
I  feels  er  lump  rise  in  my  th'ot :  kaze  I  pinin'  fer 
Miss  Nellie,  too.  I  sholy  wuz  lonesome,  dat's  de 
trufe ;  kaze  she  de  light  er  de  house. 

"I  imow  Marse  Tom  go  ter  see  Miss  Nellie  some- 
times, but  ole  Marster  don't  know  nuttin'  'bout 
it.  Marse  Tom  ain't  guine  gi'  up  dat  sweet  sis- 
ter er  hisn  ter  please  nobody.  Dat  he  ain't.  But 
Lord  a  mussv!  we  all  git  stirred  up  sho'  'nuS, 
when  de  news  come  dat  Jack  Gray  done  gone  an 
line  de  buSerloes.  Yes,  sar !  he  jis'  wheel  right 
eroun'  an'  he'p  de  Yankees  ter  fight  his  own  folks. 


8  The    Eyrie, 

^'Marse  Joe,  he  cut  up  lack  tliunder  when  he 
heer  dat;  but  Marse  Tom  ain't  say  nuttin',  tie  jis' 
tu'n  white  in  de  face  an'  shet  'is  mouf  tight,  an' 
go  down  an'  walk  all  by  hisse'f  on  de  riber  sho' 
dar.  He  surtney  do  look  lonesome  now,  dat's  de 
truf  e ! 

"De  weeks  an'  de  munts  roll  erway,  an'  de  whole 
kentry  tu'nd  upside  down,  wid  de  Yankees,  de  buf- 
ferloes  an'  de  g'rillers,  jis'  er  swarmin',  all  o'  de 
whole  creation, 

"One  night  dat  summer  I  settin'  on  my  doo'- 
step  all  by  myse'f,  kaze  Marse  Tom  rid  ter  Nixon- 
ton  dat  mornin'  an'  ain't  come  back,  an'  I  wait- 
in'  fer  'im.  De  night  wuz  dark  ez  pitch ;  I  couldn't 
eben  see  de  win'mills  cross  de  riber  on  de  Camden 
side. 

"I  sat  dar  watchin'  ole  Hogan's  light  rise  up 
slow  outen  de  water.  I  'spec  you  heern  'bout  dat 
light.  Dat  ole  Hogan  out  fishin'  on  dark  nights. 
He  wuz  er  powerful  mean  nigger,  he  wuz.  He 
busy  all  de  week  an'  stays  out  dar  on  de  riber  in 
his  little  rowboat  an'  fishes  all  day  long  erry  Sun- 
days. One  dark  night  ole  Hogan  out  dar 
ha'in'  er  big  time  fishin',  when  er  storm  come  up 
an^  capsize  dat  boat,  an'  dat  nigger  fall  out  an' 
git  drownded.  He  dead  sho' ;  but  he  ain't  git  no 
res',  jis'  de  same.  God  A'mighty  guine  make  'im 
stay  out  dar  on  dat  riber  an'  fish  all  night  in  de 
dark,  ter  punish  'im  fer  fishin'  so  much  on  Sun- 
days. He  guine  punish  ole  Teach,  too,  whut  dey 
call  ole  Blackbeard,  'sides  sendin'  'im  ter  de  deble. 
He  ain't  res'  none  in  liis  grave  nuther.  Many  er 
time  me  an'  heap  mo'  folks  sees  er  sperit  ship  sail- 
in'  up  an'  down,  up  an'  down,  out  yonder  in  de 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  9 

riber.  Ain't  no  boat  on  de  yeth  kin  obertake  dat 
ship.  Sailors,  an'  folks  on  sho'  too,  sees  Teaches' 
light  mighty  often,  an'  dey  sees  dat  shader  ship 
plain  ez  daylight. 

"Cap'n  Me}Tiard  done  had  Teaches'  head  chopped 
off  long  ergo;  but  he  has  ter  come  back  an'  sail 
dat  boat,  head  er  no  head. 

"Fust  thing  he  done  a'ter  'is  head  wuz  cut  off 
wuz  ter  swim  'roun'  de  boat  whar  kotch  'im  three 
times.  He  jis'  showin'  folks  whut  he  kin  do  'dout 
no  head,  er  nuttin'. 

"Wlien  dat  ole  pirate  uster  git  dat  long  hair, 
an'  dat  long  black  beard  er  hisn  plaited  an'  stuck 
full  er  lit  candles,  an'  'gin  ter  chaw  glass  twell  de 
blood  trickle  down  his  chin,  an'  when  he  gits  ter 
bu'nin'  sulphur  an'  brimstone,  an'  er-wavin'  dat 
s'od  0'  his  head,  an'  er-cussin'  an'  cuttin'  up,  folks 
nigh'  'bout  b'le'e  he  de  ole  deble  hisse'f. 

"I  sutney  does  wish  I  had  some  er  dat  money 
he  got  bu'ied  every  which  erway  'roun'  heer,  deble 
er  no  deble.  I  feard  ter  go  look  fer  it  do,  kaze 
he  ajus  cut  off  de  head  er  one  er  his  men  an'  bury 
"wid  ery  pot  er  money,  ter  'tect  it.  Ef  you  dig  fer 
dat  money,  time  yo'  spade  strike  de  iron  pot  whar 
hoi's  it,  dat  pot  done  sunk  smack  ter  de  middle 
er  de  yerth,  an'  'fo'  3^ou  knows  it,  er  gre't,  big 
mill-stone  'gins  ter  spin  'roun'  right  ober  yo'  head, 
an'  yo'  'speck  erry  minute  hit  guine  drap  an' 
squush  yo'  brains  out.  An'  'fo'  you  kin  run  fer 
yo'  life,  dat  man  whar  had  his  head  cut  off,  done 
dim'  ter  de  top  er  dat  tree,  an'  dar  he  sets  watch- 
in'  you  wid  t«^o  gre't,  big  red  eyes,  jis'  lack  balls  er 
far'. 

"Nobody    needn't    try    ter    steal    none    er    ole 


10  The    Eyrie, 

Teaches'  money,  I  tell  you  dat.  He  got  some  hid 
in  dat  woods  ober  yonder,  an'  Buzzard's  Islan'  jis' 
chock  full  er  date  gole. 

"Down  yonder  on  Little  Flatty  Creek  is  whar 
he  had  his  headquarters.  Dar  he  keep  pasel  er 
dem  goods  he  stole.  I'm  hern  some  er  dem  folks 
whut  libed  on  Little  Flatty  Creek  wuz  in  league 
wid  him  in  his  divilment.  Sometimes  he'd  come 
wid  er  whole  troop  er  his  debles  ter  some  er  de 
towns  an'  march  th'oo,  cuttin'  up  lack  he  clean 
crazy.  He  march  his  men  right  in  de  folks'  houses 
an'  teck  jis'  whut  he  please,  'dout  axin'  nobody 
no  odds,  an'  dey  skeered  ter  'zist  'im,  kaze  ef  dey 
do  he  chop  der  head  right  off.  He  ain't  ax  no  odds 
to  rush  right  in  an'  grab  er  man's  wife  er  da'ter 
an'  run  off  wid  'er,  an'  when  he  gits  tar'd  er  her 
he  jis'  chop  off  'er  head  an'  fling  'er  o'board.  But 
I  better  stop  talkin'  'bout  'im  dis  fashion.  Fust 
thing  I  knows  he'll  grab  me  an'  cut  off  my  head 
an'  fling  me  in  dat  riber. 

"But  dat  night  I  tellin'  you  'bout,  when  I  set- 
tin'  dar  watchin'  ole  Teaches'  light,  I  heers  Marse 
Tom  come  gallopin'  up  on  hossback.  He  see  me 
settin'  in  de  light  er  de  doo',  an'  drive  up  dar  an' 
say,  ^Pete,  git  on  dis  hors'  quick,  an'  go  ter  Nel- 
lie's an'  tell  her  dat  I  say  ter  meet  me  at  de  fork 
er  de  road  jis'  in  front  er  her  house  at  ten  erclock 
ter-morrer  mornin'.  Tell  her  not  ter  fail  ter  do 
dat.     Do  you  understan'  ?' 

"I  jumps  on  dat  hoss  an'  erway  I  goes.  I  git 
ter  Miss  Nellie's  all  right  an'  'livers  dat  message, 
an'  starts  home  ergin  'bout  twelve  er'clock. 

"I  rid  erlong  not  thinkin'  'bout  bein'  skeered 
twell  I  gits  in  front  er  de  ole  Ashley  house  dar 


And  Other  Southern  Stones.  ii 

ter  De  Elums.  ^Bout  dat  time  my  hoss  shied  so 
sudent  I  jam  pitched  head  ober  heels;  an^  I  heer 
supin'  guine  whiz !  whiz !  whiz !  lack  er  big  wheel 
turnin'  ^roim'.  Den  my  hair  riz  on  my  head  sho' 
'nuii;  kase  I  knowed  pintidly  dat  de  sperit  er  ole 
Miss  Ashley.  She  nster  be  er  mighty  spinner, 
an'  when  you  heers  dat  wheel  guine  whiz !  whiz ! 
whiz !  lack  dat,  you  knows  dat's  her  sperit  settin' 
dar  spinnin'  fer  dear  life.  Sometimes  she  come 
back  in  de  shape  uf  er  gre't,  big  ball  er  far',  'bout 
de  size  uv  er  cart-wheel,  an'  she  roll  down  dat  road 
jist  er  scatterin'  sparks  ez  she  goes. 

^''I  'mos'  sho'  I  guine  see  dat  ball  er  far'  dat 
night  when  I  heered  dat  wheel  tu'nin'  roun',  an' 
ef  I  didn't  meek  dat  hoss  skoot  I'll  hush ! 

"Ole  Mr.  Ashley  had  dat  house  built  wid  er 
chimbly  in  the  middle  an'  er  outside  doo'  in  erry 
room,  so  he  kin  run  in  an'  out  when  dat  'oman 
tuck  a'ter  'im  wid  dat  gre't,  big  pistol  whar  she 
call  her  Sherlock;  kaze  he  know  she'd  shoot  'im 
in  er  minute.  Dat  po'  man  sholy  did  ha'  er  hard 
time.  Sometimes  when  things  git  too  hot  fer  'im 
dar  home  he'd  go  off  an'  stay  three  er  fo'  days. 
When  he  come  back  he'd  open  de  front  doo'  an' 
fling  in  his  hat.  Ef  dat  'oman  hang  dat  hat  on 
de  peg  whar  it  'longs,  he  knows  he  kin  go  in  an' 
she  ain't  guine  beat  'im ;  but  ef  she  flings  dat  hat 
out-doo's  he  jis'  puts  hit  back  on  his  head  an'  off 
he  walks  ergin  ter  stay  twell  she  git  pleased. 

"Xo  wonder  when  she  comes  back  she  brings  some 
er  de  deble's  far'  wid  her.  I  b'le'e  plenty  folks 
on  dis  heer  yerth  is  mighty  nigh  kin  ter  de  deble, 
dat  I  does.  I  knows  dem  g'rillers  wuz.  fer  er  fac'. 
Deble  ain't  done  many  deeds  no  blacker  'n  some 


1 2  The    Eyrie, 

dey  done.  I  gnine  tell  ye  'bout  de  'mos'  outland- 
ish thing  whut  happen  endurin'  de  war:  Marse 
Tom  done  been  ter  see  Miss  Nellie,  an'  tell  her  ter 
warn  her  husban'  ter  be  on  de  sharp  lookout;  dat 
de  kentry  'roun'  heer  swarmin'  wid  dem  g'rillers, 
an'  dey  hid  in  erry  woods  an'  thicket  watchin'  fer 
de  bufferloes  an'  guine  shoot  um  on  de  sly.  God 
A'mighty !  ef  dat  Jack  Gray  had  er  listened  ter 
dat  warnin'  he  might  er  been  libin'  ter  dis  day ! 
But  he  dat  wentnr'some,  he  ain't  skeered  er  g'ril- 
lers  er  nobody  else,  dat's  de  trufe. 

"  'Twa'n't  many  weeks  a'ter  dat  'f  o'  he  tuck  Miss 
Nellie  ter  see  his  cousin,  whut  libed  t'other  side  er 
Newbergun  Creek.  Dey  rid  in  er  open  buggy  an' 
started  home  'bout  four  o'clock  in  de  ebenin'. 
When  dey  git  dar  ter  de  Trunk  Bridges  at  New- 
bergun  Creek,  er  whole  band  er  g'rillers  sprung 
out  an'  'fo'  Jack  Gray  kin  raise  his  han'  er  open  his 
mouf,  dey  done  en  riddled  'im  wid  bullets.  One 
er  dem  bullets  went  th'oo  Miss  Nellie's  hat,  an' 
ernudder  one  grazed  'er  arm.  De  hoss  tuck  fright 
an'  run  erway,  he  skeered  'mos'  ter  def.  When 
Miss  Nellie  see  her  husban'  drap  de  reins  an'  fall 
back  stiff,  she  jis'  flung  'er  arms  'roun'  his  neck, 
an'  hilt  'im  in  de  buggy.  De  blood  gushed  frum 
all  dem  wounds  an'  soaked  her  close  an'  stained 
her  hands  an'  face,  an'  trickled  down  in  er  big  red 
puddle  in  de  foot  er  de  buggy.  Dat  hoss  had 
'longed  ter  Miss  Nellie  since  she  wuz  er  little  gal. 
He  skeered  'mos'  outen  his  senses,  but  he  meek 
er  ^B'  line  fer  de  Eyrie,  an'  ain't  stop  twell  he  git 
back  ter  his  ole  home. 

^^Vhen  he  git  dar  ter  de  big  gate  he  stop  so 
sudent  dat  he  fling  Miss  Nellie  an'  Marse  Jack  out 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  13 

on  de  ditch  bank,  den  he  whicker  an'  paw  de  groun'. 
Marse  Tom,  settin'  readin^  on  de  front  po'ch,  an' 
I  workin'  in  de  flower  garden  close  by.  We  bofe 
seed  dat  boss  er-flyin'  down  de  road  at  de  same 
time.  Marse  Tom  flung  down  dat  book  an'  rnn 
lack  er  deer  to'ds  de  big  gate  what  opened  in  de 
main  road,  an'  I  followed  close  at  his  heels.  He 
beat  me  runnin',  an'  when  I  git  dar  he  done  had 
Miss  ISTellie  in  his  arms  er-wipin'  de  blood  frum 
'er  face  wid  'is  handkercher.  His  face  'mos'  white 
ez  er  sheet,  an'  all  he  say  is :  Tete,  tell  father, 
an'  go  fer  er  doctor,  quick,  quick !'  He  carri'd 
Miss  Xellie  in  'is  arms  lack  er  baby,  ter  de  bed 
in  her  ole  room  whut  nobody  ain't  sleep  in  sense 
she  lef.  She  done  faint  clean  erwav  an'  lay  dar 
lack  she  stone  dead.  Dinah  an'  Mollie  fiyin'  eroun' 
dar  gettin'  water  an'  towels,  an'  Marse  Tom  bath- 
in'  her  hands  an'  face,  when  ole  Marster  come  ter 
de  bed  an'  look  at  her.  He  'gun  ter  trimble  frum 
head  ter  foot  an'  drapt  inter  er  cheer  an'  kivered 
'is  face  wid  'is  ban's.  Den  I  flies  out  dat  house, 
ketches  er  boss,  an'  rides  bare-back  fer  Dr.  Grimes, 
whar  lib  'bout  two  mile  frum  de  Eyrie. 

"Ez  good  luck  would  have  it  I  fines  'im  home, 
an'  back  we  flies  lack  de  win'.  When  we  gits  dar 
out  jumps  Dr.  Grimes,  an'  makes  his  way  th'oo 
er  whole  pasel  er  darkies  an'  white  folks  gethered 
roun'  Marse  Jack.  De  docter  ben's  ober  dat  po' 
man,  an'  puts  his  han'  on  his  ris',  den  on  his  heart, 
den  he  gits  up  an'  say  mighty  solum :  ^I  can't 
do  no  good  beer.  He's  stone  dead.  I'll  go  in  an' 
see  whut  kin  be  done  fer  de  lady.'  An'  off  he 
starts  fer  de  house.  I  f oilers  'im  inter  Miss  Nel- 
lie's room.     She  done  come  to  an'  open  her  eyes 


14  The    Eyrie, 

^bout  dis  time.  De  docter  teck  'er  han'  an'  ax 
mighty  sof ' :  'Is  you  hurt  ?'  She  say,  'No,  no,  not 
much;  but  tell  me  erbout  Jack.     Is  he  dead?' 

"De  doctor  tu'n  erway  his  face,  an'  say,  'We'll 
talk  erbout  him  in  er  minute,  you  jist  drink  dis 
medicine  fer  me,  quick,  an'  hit  well  meek  you  feel 
better.'  She  look  like  she  'mos'  addled,  but  she 
mine  de  doctor  an'  drink  de  medicine. 

"Den  she  close  her  eyes  an'  say,  'You  might  jist 
ez  well  tell  me  he  is  dead  !  dead  !  I  know !  I  know !' 

"De  doctor  bow  his  head,  an'  say,  'Yes,  my  dear, 
he  is  dead ;  but  you  mus'  be  brave  fer  yo'  brother  s 
sake !'  Everybody  know  how  good  Miss  Nellie  lub 
Marse  Tom.  He  settin'  on  de  side  er  de  bed  right 
den  holdin'  her  han'.  She  fling  her  arms  roun'  his 
neck  an'  sob  an'  cry  lack  her  heart  clean  broke.  I 
follers  de  doctor  outen  de  room,  an'  when  I  gits 
downstairs  dey  had  done  washed  an'  dressed  Marse 
Jack  an'  laid  'im  out  in  de  parlor.  His  pore  old 
Mammy  standin'  o'  'im  cryin'  an'  sobbin',  an'  ole 
Marster  walkin"  in  an'  out  de  room  givin'  orders; 
he  done  come  to,  now  he  know  Miss  Nellie  ain't 
dead. 

"Dat  po'  chile  gone  ter  sleep  now,  an'  Marse 
Tom  settin'  by  her  keepin'  watch.  'Long  'bout 
ten  o'clock  dat  night,  when  err^^thing  still  ez  er 
mouse,  sich  er  scream  ez  I  neber  shill  fergit  rung 
th'oo  dat  house.  Den  ernudder  an'  ernudder  un- 
twell  my  hair  riz  on  my  head.  Den  I  heers  Miss 
Nellie's  woice  cryin'  out,  'Oh,  look  !  Look !  Look ! 
Oh,  see  de  blood !  Dar  s  er  bullet  in  his 
heart  an'  in  his  brain !  he  bleeds !  he  dies ! 
see  de  blood!'  Den  she  swoon  erway,  cry- 
in'    all    dat    night;    when    she    come    to,    she 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  15 

jis'  say,  'Oh,  blood  !  blood !  blood  !^  Den  she  ring 
^er  ban's  an'  scream  ergin,  an'  ain't  know  nutten 
else.  She  ain't  eben  know  when  we  car'y  Marse 
Jack  erway  ter  bury  him,  she  gone  clean  'stracted. 
Pore  Miss  Xellie !  Fer  days  an'  weeks  she  linger 
dar  wid  de  brain  feber,  Marse  Tom  an'  her  Pa 
watchin'  by  her  night  an'  day.  She  ain't  neber 
speak  er  wud  ter  ole  Marster  er  nobody,  she  clean 
gone  onten  her  head  an'  ain't  talk  'bout  nuthen  but 
de  gTillers  an'  blood.  But  jis'  'fo'  she  dies,  she 
open  her  eyes  an'  look  up  in  Marse  Tom's  face, 
an'  say  wid  er  smile : 

"  ^Tom,  take  me  in  yo'  boat  on  de  riber ;  de  wa- 
ter am  smoove,  de  win'  blows  so  fresh,  an'  de  wa- 
ter-lilies gleam  so  white.  Take  me,  please,  Tom, 
I  so  tired,  I  wants  ter  res'.' 

"Marse  Tom  ben'  his  head  an'  kiss  her  on  de 
cheek,  den  she  shet  her  eyes,  an'  ain't  neber  open 
um  in  dis  worl'  no  mo'. 

"I  neber  shill  fergit  dem  sad  an'  lonesome  days 
whut  follered  de  death  er  Miss  Xellie.  Hit  break 
my  heart  ter  see  pore  Marse  Tom.  Dar  ain't  no 
music  fer  him  no  mo'  in  de  song  er  birds,  an'  no 
joy  in  de  sunshine,  kaze  de  music  an^  de  sunshine 
er  his  young  life  am  gone  fereber. 

"He  tell  ole  Marster  he  cannot  stay  at  de  ole 
home  no  longer;  he  mus'  drown  his  trouble  in  the 
roar  er  de  cannon,  in  de  'citement  an'  thunder  ub 
de  war.  So  erway  he  goes  ter  jine  de  Confederate 
regiment  whar  campin'  at  Woodville,  den  erway  ter 
de  war  once  mo'. 

"Den  I  tries  ter  cheer  up  ole  Marster,  an'  he 
'peared  ter  keep  up  his  sperits  mighty  good,  twell 
we  heerd  dat  Eichmon'  had  fell.     He  know  Marse 


1 6  The    Eyrie, 

Tom  dar  in  de  thick  er  de  fight,  an'  he  'mos' 
grebe  ter  def .  When  de  news  come  dat  Marse  Tom 
wuz  killed,  de  pore  ole  man  jis'  reeled  an'  fell.  I 
sartin  he  clean  dead;  but  presney  he  come  to  an' 
look  eroun'  an'  say  ?  '^All  gone !  all  gone !  My 
children,  my  kentry,  everything!" 

"I  say,  wid  de  tears  tricklin'  down  my  face, 
^Dat's  so,  Marster,  but  you  got  pore,  ole,  no-'count 
Pete,  whut  lubs  vou,  an'  I  don't  keer  ef  he  am 
bound  er  free,  he  guine  stan'  by  3^ou  twell  yo'  head 
er  hisn  am  laid  ter  res'  under  de  sod.'  He  tuck 
my  hand  in  hisn,  an'  say, 

"  ''Good,  faithful  Pete !  I  thanks  you,  an'  lubs 
you,  but  my  ole  heart  am  broke.' 

"I  see  he  spoke  de  trufe.  But  he  say  he  can't 
die  twell  Marse  Tom  is  brung  home,  an'  hurried 
by  de  side  er  Miss  Nellie. 

"So  jist  ez  soon  ez  we  kin  we  goes  ter  Eich- 
mon,'  an'  er  frien'  er  Marse  Tom's  whut  fought 
in  dat  las'  battle  wid  him,  an'  writ  ole  Marster  how 
brave  he  wuz,  goes  wid  us  ter  Marse  Tom's  grave. 
'Twuz  er  sad  task  we  had,  but  we  tuck  dat  coffin, 
whut  hilt  all  dat  wuz  lef  er  brave  Marse  Tom  back 
to  de  Eyrie,  an'  hurried  him  wid  de  rest  er  de  Shir- 
leys. 

"N'ot  many  months  a'ter  dat  we  laid  Marse  Joe 
by  his  side.  Den  de  place  whar  wuz  his  home, 
an'  whar  he  'speck  guine  ter  be  de  home  er  his 
chillun  an'  grand' chillun,  wuz  sold,  an'  fell  inter 
de  ban's  er  strangers. 

"When  I  sits  dar  on  my  doo'step  ub  er  ebenin', 
an'  on  bright  moonlight  nights,  I  kin  see  de  toom'- 
stone  whut  marks  Miss  Nellie's  grave.  It  am  un- 
der de  weepin'-willer  not  fer  frum  de  riber.     She 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  17 

an'  Marse  Tom  sleeps  dar  side  by  side.  Dar  de 
wild  roses  an'  de  jassamine  blooms,  an'  de  birds 
build  dey  nes'  an'  dey  sing  dey  glad  songs  in  de 
springtime. 

"Hit's  er  sweet  spot  ter  rest  in  when  yo'  body 
an'  yo'  soul  am  weary;  when  yo'  heart  am  broke, 
an'  de  light  er  dis  worl'  am  gone  out.  Yes,  sar, 
hit's  er  sweet  spot  ter  rest  in." 


1 8  The    Eyrie, 


II. 

THE    NAG'S    HEAD    PICTUEE    OF   THEO- 

DOSIA  BUEE. 

The  sand  dunes  of  l^orth  Carolina  have  long 
been  famous  as  the  scene  of  marine  tragedies.  The 
bleaching  ribs  of  some  of  the  stateliest  craft  that 
ever  plowed  the  deep  bear  testimony  to  the  ravagps 
of  old  ocean.  The  English  merchantman,  the  Por- 
tugese galleon,  the  Dutch  brigantine,  the  Spanish 
treasure  ship,  the  French  corvette,  the  Norwegian 
barque,  representatives  of  every  maritime  nation 
on  the  globe,  are  scattered  over  the  beach,  from 
Hatteras  to  Cape  Fear,  their  grisly  skeletons  pro- 
truding from  the  sands  like  antedilu\ian  monsters 
in  some  geological  bed. 

This  narrow  strip  of  sand,  winding  like  a  yel- 
low ribbon  between  the  inland  sounds  and  the  sea, 
presents  a  curious  study  to  the  geologist.  For 
years  it  has  been  gradually  sinking,  and  at  the  same 
time  becoming  narrower,  until  now  its  average 
width  is  not  more  than  a  mile;  and,  the  libertine 
waters  of  the  great  sea  not  seldom  rush  across 
the  frail  barrier  to  embrace  those  of  the  Albe- 
marle. 

The  slender  divide  has  not  always  been  able  to 
withstand  the  matchless  flood,  which  has,  in  times 
of  unusual  commotion,  literally  cut  a  pathway 
through  the  yielding  sands. 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  19 

These  form  inlets,  of  which  Oregon,  Hatteras 
and  'New  are  the  most  important.  Through  the 
first  Burnside's  fleet  of  warships  defiled  on  its  way 
to  the  bombardment  of  Roanoke  Island. 

The  channels  are  constantly  changing,  and  skill- 
ful pilots  are  required  to  guide  vessels  safely  over 
the  bar. 

The  ornitholoorist  mav  here  find  much  to  in- 
terest  him,  and  the  conchologist  revel  in  a  para- 
dise of  shells.  But  the  nautilus,  pale  and  pearly, 
and  the  delicate  blush  of  the  sea  conch,  have  small 
influence  on  the  rude  nature  of  the  native  ^'hanker." 
Isolated  from  the  world  on  this  barren  waste  of 
shifting  sand  the  'Tjanker"  of  a  hundred  3'ears  ago 
was  almost  a  barbarian.  His  savage  instincts  not 
only  made  him  consider  all  flotsam  and  Jetsam  his 
lawful  property,  but  induced  him  to  use  every 
means  to  lure  vessels  ashore  for  purposes  of  plun- 
der. And  when  a  wreck  occurred,  the  wreckers 
held  high  carnival.  The  sparse  population  turned 
out  '^'^en  masse/'  and  with  demoniac  yells,  mur- 
dered without  remorse  the  hapless  victims  who  es- 
caped the  raging  surf.  Nags  Head,  a  favorite  sum- 
mer resort  along  the  coast,  was  named  from  a  habit 
the  "bankers"  had  of  hobbling  a  horse,  suspend- 
ing a  lantern  from  its  neck,  and  walking  it  up 
and  down  the  beach  on  stormy  nights,  impressing 
the  mariner  with  the  belief  that  a  vessel  was  rid- 
ing safely  at  anchor.  Through  this  device  many 
a  good  ship  has  gone  down  and  much  valuable 
booty  secured  to  the  land  pirates. 

The  "'bankers"  of  to-day  are  different  beings 
from  their  ancestors  of  a  century  ago.  Fellowship 
with  enlightened  people  has  had  a  humanizing  in- 


20  The    Eyrie, 

flnence,  and  they  are  now  good  and  useful  citizens. 
The  North  Carolina  coast  is  provided  with  three 
first-class  lighthouses,  Hatteras,  Whale's  Head,  and 
Body's  Island. 

Body's  Island  is  no  longer  an  island.  Nags 
Head  Inlet  which  formed  its  northern  boundary, 
having  been  completely  closed  up  by  the  encroach- 
ing sands.  • 

The  dunes,  for  the  most  part  barren  of  vegeta- 
tion, have  in  some  places  a  stunted  growth  of  for- 
est trees,  and  in  others  large  marshes  covered  with 
a  rank  growth  of  coarse  grass,  on  which  herds  of 
wild  cattle  and  "banks  ponies"  graze. 

In  the  winter  of  1812  there  drifted  ashore  at  Eatty 
Hawk,  a  few  miles  below  Nags  Head,  a  small 
pilot  boat  with  all  saijs  set  and  the  rudder  lashed. 
There  was  no  sign  of  violence  or  bloodshed ;  the 
boat  was  in  perfect  condition,  but  entirely  deserted. 
The  small  table  in  the  cabin  had  been  spread  for 
some  repast,  which  remained  undisturbed.  There 
were  several  handsome  silk  dresses,  a  vase  of  wax 
flowers  with  a  glass  covering,  a  nautilus  shell  beau- 
tifully carved,  and  hanging  on  the  wall  of  the  cabin 
was  the  portrait  of  a  young  and  beautiful  woman. 
This  picture  was  an  oil  painting  on  polished  ma- 
hogany, twenty  inches  in  length  and  enclosed  in  "a 
frame  richly  gilded.  The  face  was  patrician  and 
refined :  the  expression  of  the  dark  eyes,  proud  and 
haughty;  the  hair  dark  auburn,  curling  and  abun- 
dant. A  white  bodice  cut  low  in  the  neck  and 
richly  adorned  with  lace,  revealed  a  glimpse  of 
the  drooping  shoulders,  and  the  snowy  bust,  un- 
confined  by  corset. 

The  wreckers  who  boarded  the  boat  possessed 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  21 

themselves  of  everything  of  vahie  on  board.  The 
picture,  wax  flowers,  nautilus  shell  and  silk  dresses 
fell  into  the  possession  of  an  illiterate  banker 
woman,  who  attached  no  especial  value  to  them. 

This  picture,  which  has  since  attracted  so  much 
attention,  hung  on  the  wall  of  a  rude  cabin  among 
the  Xorth  Carolina  hills  for  fifty-seven  years.  In 
the  year  1869,  it  fell  into  the  possession  of  the 
late  Dr.  William  G.  Pool,  a  prominent  North  Caro- 
lina physician.  Dr.  Pool  was  a  man  of  marked 
individuality.  He  had  the  tastes  of  an  antiquarian, 
was  literary,  cultured,  and  noted  for  his  remark- 
able conversational  gifts.  While  summering  at 
Nags  Head,  he  was  called  upon  to  visit  profession- 
ally the  old  banker  woman  referred  to  above.  He 
was  successful  in  his  treatment  of  the  case,  and 
knowing  the  circumstances  of  his  patient,  would 
accept  no  payment  for  his  services.  In  her  grati- 
tude for  his  kindness,  the  old  woman  insisted  upon 
his  accepting  "as  a  gift,"  the  portrait  hanging 
on  the  wall  of  her  cabin.  When  questioned  con- 
cerning its  history,  she  related  the  facts  above  men- 
tioned. This  she  did  with  apparent  reluctance, 
possibly  suppressing  many  interesting  details  that 
might  have  thrown  more  light  upon  the  subject. 
Her  husband  had  been  one  of  the  wreckers  who 
boarded  the  pilot  boat,  and  the  picture  and  other 
articles  referred  to  had  been  his  share  of  the 
spoils.  Her  story  was,  that  the  wreckers  supposed 
the  boat  to  have  been  boarded  by  pirates,  and  .that 
passengers  and  crew  had  been  made  to  "walk  the 
plank."  The  picture  and  its  strange  history  be- 
came a  subject  of  much  interest  and  conjecture  to 
Dr.  Pool.       Artists  pronounced  it  a  masterpiece, 


22      •  The    Eyrie, 

and  the  "unmistakable  portrait  of  some  woman  of 
patrician  birth. 

Chancing  one  day  to  pick  up  an  old  magazine 
in  which  appeared  a  picture  of  Aaron  Burr,  Dr. 
Pool  was  forcibly  struck  by  the  strong  resemblance 
between  it  and  the  portrait  in  question.  Like  a 
flash  it  occurred  to  him  that  this  might  be  a  like- 
ness of  Theodosia,  the  ill-fated  daughter  of  Aaron 
Burr.  Eagerly  he  compared  dates  and  facts,  until 
he  became  thoroughly  convinced  that  he  had  found 
a  clue  to  that  mysterious  disappearance,  which  is 
one  of  the  most  awful  tragedies  of  history.  A  brief 
account  of  this  discovery  was  published  in  the  New 
York  "Sun,"  and  immediatelv  letters  innumerable 
were  received  by  him  asking  for  more  particulars. 

Photographs  of  the  portrait  were  sent  to  the 
numerous  members  of  the  Burr  and  Edwards  fam- 
ilies, and  almost  without  exception  the  likeness  was 
pronounced  to  be  that  of  Theodosia  Burr.  Charles 
Burr  Todd,  the  author,  and  Mrs.  Stella  Drake 
Knappin,  descendants  respectively  of  the  Burr 
and  Edwards  families,  visited  Dr.  PooFs  residence 
on  Pasquotank  river  for  the  purpose  of  examining 
the  portrait.  They  were  both  convinced  that  it 
was  a  likeness  of  Theodosia  Burr. 

The  wife  of  Col.  \Aaieeler  of  Washington,  D.  C, 
who  is  a  daughter  of  Sully,  the  famous  portrait 
painter,  and  is  herself  an  artist,  compared  a  photo 
of  the  ISTags  Head  picture  with  a  likeness  of  Theo- 
dosia Burr  in  her  possession.  She  at  once  per- 
ceived that  both  features  and  expression  were  iden- 
tical. 

There  was  probably  no  woman  in  America  at 
the  time  of  Theodosia  Burr's  death,  more  univer- 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  23 

sally  know  and  admired  than  she.  Her  high  social 
rank,  her  beauty,  her  genius,  her  accomplishments, 
as  well  as  her  heroic  devotion  to  her  father  in  the 
dark  days  of  his  disgrace  and  banishment,  had 
made  her  a  prominent  figure  and  had  won  for  her 
the  admiration  of  thousands. 

WTien  Aaron  Burr  upon  his  return  from  exile 
sent  for  his  daughter  to  visit  him  in  iSFew  York, 
she  decided  to  make  the  voyage  by  sea.  Her  health 
had  been  almost  completely  wrecked  by  grief  over 
her  father's  disgrace,  and  the  recent  death  of  her 
only  child,  young  Aaron  Burr  Alston.  It  was 
thought  that  a  sea  voyage  might  prove  beneficial. 
She  accordingly  set  sail  from  Georgetown,  S.  C, 
in  the  "Patriot,"  a  small  pilot  boat,  December 
30th,  1812.  Days  and  weeks  passed,  but  Aaron 
Burr  waited  in  vain  for  the  arrival  of  his  daughter. 
Months  and  years  rolled  away  and  still  no  tidings 
came.  The  "Patriot"  and  all  on  board  had  com- 
pletely vanished  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  and 
the  mystery  of  its  disappearance  remained  un- 
solved for  more  than  half  a  century. 

Governor  Alston  did  not  long  survive  the  loss 
of  his  beloved  wife,  and  Aaron  Burr,  in  speaking, 
years  afterwards  of  his  daughter's  mysterious  fate, 
said  that  this  event  had  separated  him  from  the 
human  race. 

Let  us  now  compare  dates  and  facts :  A  pilot 
boat  drifts  ashore  during  the  winter  of  1812  at 
Kitty  Hawk,  a  few  miles  below  Xags  Head.  There 
are  silk  dresses  in  the  cabin,  and  other  indica- 
tions that  some  lady  of  wealth  and  refinement  has 
been  on  board.  There  is  a  portrait  on  the  wall 
of  the  cabin  that  has  been  pronounced  by  artists 


24  The    Eyric, 

and  members  of  her  family  to  be  a  likeness  of 
Theodosia  Burr. 

The  "Patriot"  was  lost  during  the  winter  of 
1812.  On  the  voyage  from  Georgetown,  S.  C, 
to  New  York,  it  would  pass  the  North  Carolina 
coast.  The  sea  at  this  time  was  infested  by  pirates. 
A  band  of  these  bold  buccaneers  may  have  boarded 
the  little  vessel  and  compelled  passengers  and  crew 
to  "walk  the  plank."  Becoming  alarmed  at  the 
appearance  of  some  Government  cruiser,  they  may, 
from  motives  of  prudence,  have  abandoned  their 
prize. 

This  theory  is  not  mere  conjecture.  Years  ago 
two  criminals  executed  in  Norfolk,  Va.,  are  re- 
ported as  having  testified  that  they  had  belonged 
to  a  piratical  crew  who  boarded  the  "Patriot,"  and 
compelled  every  soul  on  board  to  "walk  the  plank." 
The  same  confession  was  made  years  subsequently 
by  a  mendicant  dying  in  a  Michigan  alms- 
house. This  man  said  he  would  never  forget  the 
beautiful  face  of  Theodosia  Burr,  as  it  sank  be- 
neath the  waves,  nor  how  eloquently  she  pleaded 
for  her  life,  promising  the  pirates  pardon  and  a 
liberal  reward  if  they  would  spare  her.  But  they 
were  relentless,  and  she  went  to  her  doom  with 
so  dauntless  and  calm  a  spirit,  that  even  the  most 
hardened  pirates   were  touched. 

I  cannot  vouch  for  the  truth  of  these  confes- 
sions which  have  appeared  from  time  to  time  in 
print,  I  only  introduce  them  as  collateral  evidence 
in  support  of  the  banker  woman's  story.  The  "Pa- 
triot" was  supposed  to  have  been  wrecked  off  the 
coast  of  Hatteras  during  a  terrific  storm  which 
occurred  soon  after  it  set  sail.     This^  however,  was 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  25 

mere  conjecture  which  has  never  been  substantiated 
by  the  slightest  proof. 

It  is  not  improbable  that  the  "Patriot"  during 
a  night  of  storm  was  lured  ashore  by  the  decoy 
light  at  N'ags  Head,  and  that  passengers  and  crew 
fell  into  the  hands  of  the  land  pirates  in  wait- 
ing, who  possessed  themselves  of  the  boat  and 
ever}i:hing  of  value  it  contained. 

This  also,  of  course,  is  mere  conjecture;  but  the 
all-important  fact  remains  that  a  pilot  boat  went 
ashore  at  Kitty  Hawk  during  the  winter  of  1812, 
and  that  in  the  cabin  of  this  boat  was  a  portrait 
of  Theodosia  Burr. 


26  The    Eyric, 


III. 

THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  PAST. 

The  sun  had  set  and  the  shadows  of  night  were 
beginning  to  fall. 

In  the  handsome  drawing-room  of  a  magnificent 
brownstone  mansion  sat  a  woman  of  exquisite 
grace  and  beauty.  All  women  envied  her,  all  men 
admired  her. 

Fortune  had  lavished  upon  her  its  choicest  gifts : 
beauty,  talent,  w^ealth,  position ;  and  yet  there  were 
times  when  nothing  seemed  to  her  of  any  value, 
when  her  life  seemed  empty  and  desolate,  her  heart 
like  lead. 

Her  husband  surrounded  her  with  every  luxury 
that  immense  wealth  could  purchase;  he  gratified 
her  every  expressed  desire;  and  yet  he  seemed  to 
her  as  cold  and  incapable  of  love  as  the  snow-capped 
summits  of  the  Alps. 

Long  ago  she  had  been  loved,  yes,  loved  with 
a  passionate  devotion  such  as  few  women  possess, 
and  she  had  not  valued  it. 

It  seemed  to  her  now  that  she  never  could  value 
anything  else. 

As  she  sat  by  the  open  window  and  watched  the 
stars  come  out  one  by  one  in  the  summer  sky,  she 
thought  of  a  summer  long-ago,  and  a  mist  of  tears 
blinded  her  eyes. 


And  Other  Southern  Stones.  27 

She  saw  long  stretches  of  yellow  sand,  and  hills 
gleaming  white  in  the  moonlight.  She  heard  the 
murmur  of  the  sea,  the  lash  of  the  waves  against 
the  shore,  that  sound  which  once  was  music,  which 
now  seemed  a  dirge.  She  saw  herself  a  young, 
happy,  thoughtless  girl,  vain  of  her  beauty,  proud 
of  her  conquests.  And  always  by  her  side  she  saw 
the  man  she  had  loved,  and  who  had  loved  her : 
the  man  whose  genius  had  charmed  all  hearts ; 
whose  personal  beauty,  magnetism,  grace,  had  made 
him  seem  to  her  a  kins:  amono-  men.  Xever  would 
she  forget  the  night,  when  false  to  herself  and  false 
to  him,  she  had  denied  the  love  that  even  at  that 
moment  was  consuming  her  heart,  and  sent  him 
from  her,  embittered,  hopeless,  crushed. 
♦  And  then  came  the  chime  of  wedding  bells,  and 
she  saw  herself  a  bride.  She  had  married  a  man 
whose  almost  fabulous  wealth  had  dazzled  her, 
and  blinded  her  to  all  sense  of  right  and  duty. 

The  scales  had  fallen  from  her  CA^es  too  late, 
and  the  Dead-Sea  fruit  had  turned  to  ashes  on  her 
lips. 

Yain  and  foolish  dream,  that  there  can  be  any 
true  happiness  in  a  woman's  life  where  love  is 
not. 

In  the  midst  of  luxury  and  power  she  often  felt 
herself  more  wretched  than  the  beggar  who  came 
to  her  door  for  alms. 

Her  heart,  her  very  life  was  consumed  by  a 
vain  regret,  a  passionate  remorse. 

As  she  sat  in  her  richly-furnished  room,  instead 
of  the  luxury  around  her,  she  saw  to-night  that  lit- 
tle village  by  the  sea,  where  she  spent  one  sweet 
summer  long  ago.     Scene  after  scene  rose  before 


28  The    Eyrie, 

her,  until,  with  a  stifled  sob,  she  buried  her  face 
in  her  hands. 

Just  then  she  heard  the  notes  of  a  guitar,  and 
a  sweet  girlish  voice  was  wafted  to  her  from  a 
balcony  near  by: 

"Could  you  come  hack  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas, 
In  the  old  likeness  that  I  knew, 
I  would  he  so  faithful,  so  loving,  Douglas, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true." 

A  tremor  ran  through  her  frame. 

As  she  listened  she  saw  herself  standing  by  a 
grave.  Autumn  winds  were  sighing;  autumn 
leaves  strewed  the  ground.  Deep  down  under 
those  leaves  and  those  clods  lay  the  form  of  the 
man  who  had  loved  her,  and  whose  life  she  had 
wrecked. 

So  still !  so  still !  so  dark !  Shut  away  forever 
from  the  noises  of  the  busy  world  whose  bright- 
ness he  had  loved  so  well. 

As  these  memories  thronged  upon  her,  the  ten^ 
der  strains  of  the  music  died  away. 

Suddenly  she  heard  an  approaching  footstep. 
She  turned  and  saw  her  husband  standing  by  her 
side,  and  felt  thankful  that  in  the  semi-darkness 
he  could  not  see  her  face. 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  29 


IV. 

JOE  PIXETOP'S  ^^MARSE  JEEMES/' 

A   TKUE    CHARACTER    SKETCH. 

'^LESS  yo'  soul,  Mr.  Eoberson,  yo'  sholy  is 
kin  ter  Marse  Jeemes.  I  sees  de  blemish  er  him 
all  over  you,  frum  dem  two  wrinkles  in  yo'  for'ad, 
an'  dat  stiff  black  hair  ter  dem  sleepy  gray  eyes, 
what's  just  ez  much  lack  Marse  Jeemeses  ez  two 
black-eyed  peas.  ISTobody  can't  'spute  you's  some 
er  our  folks.  I  knowed  dat  'reckly  I  sot  meh  eyes 
on  ye,  'fo'  ye  done  git  dar  ter  te  doo'  an'  specified 
who  you  wuz.  Joe  Pinetop  ain't  got  no  I'arnin', 
but  'tickler  hard  ter  fool,  now,  don't  you  for- 
git  it." 

I  considered  it  a  doubtful  compliment  to  be 
told  I  resembled  my  maternal  uncle,  whose  por- 
trait, hanging  in  my  mother's  bed-chamber,  had 
attracted  my  childish  curiosity  twenty  years  ago. 
The  face,  which  I  could  even  yet  vividly  recall, 
was  certainlv  not  that  of  an  Adonis.  But  there 
was  something  peculiar  in  the  expression  of  the 
eyes  and  the  shape  of  the  head  that  had  always 
proved  an  attraction  to  me,  and  piqued  my  cu- 
riosity. 

I  lost  my  mother  when  I  was  yet  in  the  nursery, 


30  The    Eyrie, 

and  my  father  survived  her  but  a  few  years.  I 
often  questioned  the  latter  about  my  Uncle  James 
Gray,  as  I  sat  studying  the  portrait  during  many 
an  idle  hour,  with  the  eager  interest  of  a  boy  of 
ten.  My  father  always  assured  me  that  he  knew 
very  little  about  my  mother's  brother,  who  lived 
far  away  from  our  Western  home,  "Away  down 
South  in  Dixie." 

I  resolved  even  then  that  when  I  grew  to  man- 
hood I  would  visit  my  mother's  old  home,  and  ac- 
cumulate all  the  information  obtainable  concern- 
ing my  ancestors  on  that  side  of  the  house.  And 
I  was  especially  determined  to  investigate  the  his- 
tory of  the  original  of  the  attractive  portrait.  So, 
after  years  of  waiting,  I  found  myself  in  the  Old 
Xorth  state,  as  the  guest  of  Cyrus  Roberson,  my 
mother's  first  cousin.  I  soon  succeeded  in  ob- 
taining many  interesting  items  of  family  history. 
Old  bibles  and  other  records  furnished  me  with 
much-desired  information:  but  it  was  not  until 
I  made  the  acquaintance  of  Uncle  Joe  Pinetop, 
a  former  slave  of  Uncle  James  Gray,  that  I  found 
the  "open  sesame"  I  was  seeking. 

One  delightful  afternoon  late  in  October,  I  had 
the  good  fortune  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Uncle 
Joe  at  his  own  home,  a  rude  cabin  of  two  rooms, 
set  well  back  from  the  main  road  in  the  midst  of 
a  flourishing  pine  thicket.  The  old  negro  sat  doz- 
ing in  his  open  doorway,  when  the  clicking  of  the 
gate-latch  made  by  my  entrance  aroused  him. 
Never  was  guest  more  hospitably  received,  and 
after  a  few  preliminaries,  I  made  known  my  er- 
rand. 

"So  you  wants  me  to  'late  ter  you  all  I  'mem- 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  31 

bers  'bout  Marse  Jeemes^  does  you,  Mr.  Roberson? 
Well,  Marse  Jeemes  sholy  was  curious,  dat's  de 
trufe !  He  couldn't  walk  er  blessed  step  'dout  dat 
walkin'-stick  er  hisn :  but,  bless  yo'  soul !  hit  neber 
t'uched  de  ground,  but  jis'  stuck  out  frura  under 
his  arm,  one  half  befo'  an'  t'other  half  behin', 
jis'  lack  he  guine  punch  somebody's  eyes  out. 

"An'  curiser'n  dat,  he  couldn't  see  er  wink  'dout 
dem  gole-rim  spectacles  er  hisn,  what  I  don't  b'le'e 
he  eber  is  looked  th'oo  sence  he  wuz  born.  Dev 
alus  sot  on  de  top  er  dat  bal'  head  er  hisn,  lack 
he  tryin'  ter  ha'  fo'  eyes  inste'd  er  two. 

"Dat  nigger  boy,  Jake,  whut  belongst  ter  'im, 
he  wus  alus  full  er  his  devilment.  One  day  he 
ups  an'  hides  dem  gole-rim  spectacles;  done  stole 
um  offen  Marse  Jeemes's  head,  when  he  wuz  'sleep 
in  de  big  arm-cheer.  Lord !  dem  eyes  w'an't  good 
an'  open  'fo'  dem  spectacles  wuz  missed,  an'  Marse 
Jeemes  wuz  jam  'stracted.  He  had  every  nigger 
on  de  place  er  lokin'  an'  er  s'archin'  fer  em  high 
an'  low,  in  de  house  an'  out  doo's  one  whole  day 
'fo'  dat  poky  Jake  fotch  um  back  an'  slipped  um 
in  Marse  Jeemes's  pocket  on  de  sly.  Den  dat  ras- 
cal say,  ''Marster,  is  you  s'arched  all  yo'  pockets 
good  ?  I  do  b'le'e  I  see  dem  spectacles  dis  precious 
minute  in  dat  coattail  pocket  er  yorn.'  Eoun'  flops 
Marse  Jeemes,  and  grabs  in  dat  pocket,  an'  she' 
'nuff,  dar  be  de  spectacles.  Den  he  git  so  mad 
he  cuss  de  whole  plantation  blue — all  but  dat  foxy 
nigger  Jake,  what  he  give  er  gole  dollar,  kaze  he 
say  dat  boy  got  mo'  sense  an'  wuth  mo'  'n  de  whole 
bilin's  un  us  put  together. 

"But  what  tickled  me  wuz  ter  see  Marse  Jeemes 
tryin'  fer  ter  read,  feelin'  on  top  er  'is  head  fur 


32  The    Eyrie, 

dem  spectacles,  den  cussin'  an'  flin'in'  down  book 
a'ter  book  an'  paper  a'ter  paper.  N'ot  de  fust 
blessed  word  kin  dat  man  make  out  twell  dem 
spectacles  comes  ter  light  an'  is  sot  in  one  tickler 
spot  on  the  top  er  dat  bal'  head  er  hisn.  I  knowed 
his  eyes  wuz  good  ez  er  baby's,  an'  I  thought  I 
should  bust  dat  day,  when  I  seed  he  can't  read 
none  an'  how  'stracted  he  wuz  'dout  dem  spectacles." 

Uncle  Joe  rocked  himself  back  and  forth,  and 
laughed  until  the  tears  trickled  down  his  withered 
cheeks  at  the  recollection  of  this  ludicrous  scene. 
As  soon  as  he  could  control  himself  he  resumed: 
"Marse  Jeemes  wuz  er  riglor  sport  in  his  young 
days.  He  had  de  mos'  fine  clo's  an'  gin  de  mos' 
good  dinners  you  ebber  see.  He  had  piles  er 
money,  an'  more  'n  er  hundred  head  er  darkies. 
I  tell  you,  sar,  he  wuz  some  er  de  quality,  he  wuz ! 
My  mouf  right  nachly  waters  when  I  gits  ter  study- 
in'  'bout  dem  wine  parties,  when  de  fine  silver 
an'  de  cut-glass  wuz  brung  out,  an'  de  young  gents 
frum  town  would  come  out  on  hors'back  er  by  the 
kerriage  load,  an'  eat  an'  drink  an'  play  cards  an' 

cut  up Lord !  ef  dem  wa'n't  good  ole  times, 

I'll  hush! 

"But  de  older  Marse  Jeemes  git  de  curiser  he 
gits,  dat's  sartin.  He  did'  ha'  no  use  fer  women 
folks  nur  chillun,  'peared  lack  he  jis'  'spised  um 
a'ter  he  got  ole. 

"One  day  he  wuz  in  er  powerful  good  humor  an' 
I  ups  an'  axes  'im  whut's  de  reason  he  ain't  nebber 
git  mar'ied.  He  jis'  laugh  an'  say,  'Kase  I  got 
too  much  sense,  Joe  Pinetop,  dat's  de  reason. 
Womens  is  all  fools,  every  last  one  er  um,  an'  if 
dar  be  one  thing  in  dis  worl'  dat  I  'bominates  its 


And  Other  Southern  Stones.  33 

er  fool/  says  he.  Den  he  laugh  ergin,  an'  say: 
"  ^Bnt  twice  in  my  life  I  come  mighty  nigh 
bein'  er  fool  mj'self.  Yes,  Joe,  when  I  wuz  er 
young  chap  I  got  it  inter  my  head,  dat  I  wuz  in 
lub  wid  er  mighty  pretty  lady:  but  I  can't  make 
up  my  mind  if  I  guine  ax  'er  ter  be  my  wife.  One 
day  ez  I  wuz  ridin'  'long  de  road,  comin'  home,  I 
gits  ter  studyin'  'bout  dat  young  lady,  and  try- 
in'  fer  ter  'side  if  I  wants  her  or  don't  want  her. 
I  alus  knowed  dat  bosses  got  pasel  er  sense,  an' 
thinks  I,  ole  Xero's  got  heap  mo'  sense  an'  I  is, 
60  I'll  let  him  'side  dis  matter  fer  me.  So  when 
I  gits  ter  de  fork  in  de  road  ober  yonder,  whar 
one  road  leads  home  an'  t'other  ter  my  sweetheart's 
house,  I  gives  ole  Nero  de  reins,  an'  tells  him  ter 
settle  dis  hur  business  fer  me  once  an'  fer  all: 
dat  ef  it  is  best  fer  me  ter  marry  dis  'oman  ter 
trot  smack  up  ter  her  doo',  an'  I  would  'lite  an' 
pop  the  question.  But  ef  dat  'oman  guine  pull 
my  hair,  an'  chunk  my  hat  out  doo's,  an'  cut  up 
lack  ole  Scratch,  says  I,  Xero,  ef  dat's  de  way  dat 
'oman  guine  do,  don't  you  go  nigh  her:  you  jest 
make  er  B  line  fer  home;  now  you  heers  me! 
An'  bless  yo'  soul,  Joe  Pinetop,  dat  boss  fotch 
me  home;  so  dat  broke  up  de  co'tin'.' 

"  'Encose  dat  boss  guine  home,'  says  I,  Vhar 
he  know  all  dat  corn  an'  fodder  waitin'  fer  'im 
ter  eat.  He  had  nuff  sense  fer  dat  sho',  don't 
I  calls  'im  er  tickler  blockhead,  dat  I  does.' 

"  ^Xow,  Joe  Pinetop,  you  jis'  hole  yo'  tounge,' 
says  Marse  Jeemes,  'an'  I'll  tell  vou  erbout  mv 
f  other  sweetheart,  de  one  whut  nigh  'bout  kotch 
me,  sho'  'nuff.  I  had  gitten'  my  head  sot  on  de 
beautifulest  gal  in  de  whole  kentry  dis  time,  an' 


34  The    Eyrie, 

thinks  I,  now  I's  in  lub  widout  no  mistake!  So 
eway  I  rides  one  cole  day  in  December  ter  ax  'er 
ter  be  my  wife.  I  finds  her  settin'  all  by  her- 
self, right  before'  er  bright,  cracklin'  wood  far',  an' 
lookin'  jest  ez  fresh  an'  sweet  ez  er  June  rosebud. 
I  sot  down  close  beside  'er  an'  'gun  ter  talk  mighty 
sweet.  Bless  yo'  soul,  Joe,  I  wuz  jest  on  the  p'int 
er  poppin'  de  question,  when  in  blurts  dat  con- 
founded daddy  'er  hern,  flops  hisse'f  down  iner 
cheer  an'  'gins  ter  talk  erbout  fattenin'  hogs  on 
black-eyed  peas.  I  wuz  so  disgumsted  I  flung 
dat  little  white  han'  whar  wuz  restin'  in  mine 
eway,  an'  out  I  goes,  givin'  dat  doo'  er  slam-bang 
a'ter  me — mad  as  thunder.  I'll  go  ter  ole  Nick,' 
says  I,  *  'f o'  I  ax  any  'oman  to  be  my  wife  whut 
ez  got  sich  er  fool  fer  er  father  ez  ter  disinterupt 
er  coteship,  talkin'  'bout  fattenin'  hogs  on  black- 
eyed  peas. 

"  ''An'  now,  Joe  Pinetop,'  says  he,  'you  kin  bet 
yo'  bottom  dollar  I  ain't  neber  guine  make  my- 
self er  fool  'bout  nair  nother  'oman  under  de  sun. 
I  done  tuck  my  oath,'  says  he.  An',  bless  de 
Lord !  Marse  Jeemes  ain't  nebber  broke  dat  oath, 
nuther.  None  de  gals  ain't  kotch  him.  An'  I 
ain't  right  sho'  which  one  wuz  de  luckies' — Marse 
Jeemes  er  de  gals. 

"I  don't  speck  you  knows,  Mr.  Roberson,  dat 
Marse  Jeemes  wuz  er  sho'  'nuff  doctor  'fo'  de  war. 
Yes, .  sar,  he  git  his  lisence  an'  wuz  ridin'  all  o' 
de  kenty  to  see  all  de  sick  folks,  in  'tickler  de  big 
bugs.  He  wuz  gittin'  'long  mighty  good,  an'  mak- 
in'  piles  er  money  kourin'  er  whole  pasel  er  sick 
folks,  an'  his  friends  all  spresified  dat  he  guine 
climb  ter  de  top  er  de  ladder  an'  make  er  big  name. 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  35 

An^  'fo'  de  Lord !  I  b'le'e  he'd  er  done  dat  thing 
ef  it  hadn't  been  fer  dat  cussed  hoss'  er  hisn, 
ole  Nero.  I'll  tell  yo'  how  't  wuz:  One  night 
in  October,  when  de  moon  wnz  ez  bright 
ez  day,  he  vniz  sont  fer,  ter  wisit  er  mighty  sick 
man,  what  libbed  down  on  De  Pint,  'bout  ten 
mile  eway.  Marse  Jeemes  tnck  er  notion  ter  go 
on  hossback,  so  I  saddled  ole  Nero,  an'  eway  dey 
goes,  ez  lively  ez  er  cricket.  Dat  man  wnz  pow- 
erful sick,  an'  Marse  Jeemes  can't  start  home  twell 
a'ter  midnight.  Den  de  moon  done  gone  down, 
an'  der  ain't  no  stars,  an'  Marse  Jeemes  wuz  'tickler 
skerry  a'ter  dark.  He  can't  see  which  way  he 
gwine,  so  he  jis'  fling  de  reins  ter  ole  ISTero,  an' 
tell  'im  ter  pick  'is  way  de  best  he  kin,  kaze  he 
feels  lack  he  done  got  ter  de  bad  place  or  somewhar 
wus. 

"Presney,  ole  Nero  stop  kerplump,  an'  dat 
'peared  ter  agerwate  some  dogs  whar  wuz  hidin' 
somewhar  'roun',  an'  dey  made  er  outdacious  hub- 
bub, barkin'  an'  er  clankin'  der  chains.  Marse 
Jeemes  wuz  'tickler  skeered  er  dogs,  an'  his  hair 
riz  on  his  head.  He  'spected  eVry  blessed  min- 
ute he  guine  git  tore  all  ter  flinders.  He  whipped 
ole  Nero  an'  put  spurs  ter  'im,  but  dat  outlandish 
hoss  wouldn't  budge  er  peg,  he  done  made  up  his 
mind  he  ain't  guine  one  step  fudder. 

''Long  to'ds  day  Marse  Jeemes  'gun  ter  git 
mighty  sleepy,  an'  he  skeered  he  might  drap  ter 
sleep  an'  tumble  offen  dat  hoss  an'  break  'is  neck. 
So  down  he  gits  an'  stre'ches  hisse'f  on  er  pile 
er  dry  lebes  in  de  bottom  ub  er  big  ditch,  an' 
purty  soon  he  draps  ter  sleep.  An'  dar  he  sleep 
smack  twell  de  sun  shine  in  his  face  an'  woke  'im 


^6  The    Eyrie, 

up.  Den  up  he  jumps  an^  rubs  his  eyes  an'  looks 
eroun'.  Bless  de  Lord !  Ef  he  wa'n't  right  befo' 
his  own  gate,  an^  dem  dogs  what  jam  skeered  de 
life  outen  ^im  wuz  his  own  dogs,  ole  Nip  an'  ole 
Trip. 

"Marse  Jeemes  look  at  dat  house  an'  dem  dogs, 
an'  den  he  wheel  eroun'  an'  look  at  dat  ditch  an' 
dat  bed  er  lebes.  Den  he  swar  dat  everybody  in 
de  whole  kingdom  might  die  an'  go  ter  de  debble, 
he  wa'n't  nebher  guine  practice  medicine  no  mo'. 
So  dat  settled  de  doctor  business. 

"You  see  dat  tree  yander,  Mr.  Roberson?  Dat 
wuz  Marse  Jeemes's  parlor,  whar  he  hide  when 
he  want  ter  read  an'  keep  cool  in  the  summertime. 
He'd  climb  up  dar  an'  set  half  er  day  sometimes, 
hid  'mongst  all  dem  lebes.  When  he  seed  any 
company  comin'  whut  he  wants  ter  see,  down  he'd 
come,  lack  er  eel;  but  ef  he  don't  want  ter  see 
um,  he  sont  Jake  ter  de  gate  ter  tell  de  folks  dat 
he  gone  clean  eway,  an'  no  tellin'  when  he  git  back. 

"Marse  Jeemes  had  a  heep  er  book-rarnin',  but 
he  didn't  ha'  much  sense.  He  say  de  sun  am 
cole  ez  er  iceberg,  say  he  know  dat  kaze  de  nigher 
you  gits  ter  it  de  colder  you  gits :  dat  on  de  tops 
er  de  high  mountains  de  snow  don't  nebber  melt. 

"Dat  sot  me  to  studyin'.  Thinks  I  dat  sounds 
mighty  reasonable,  but  when  I  thinks  erbout  how 
it  feels  to  wuck  out  in  de  corn-fiel's  in  de  July 
sun,  an'  feel  it  brilin'  down  on  my  head  an'  jamby 
cookin'  my  brains,  thinks  I,  ef  dat  sun  am  cole,  I 
don't  want  ter  feel  nuffin'  what's  hot. 

"Marse  Jeemes  wouldn't  talk  ter  nobody  'dout 
dey  sot  mighty  still,  an'  paid  'tickler  'tention  ter 
him.     Ef  dey  'gun  ter  rock  er  fidget  erbout,  he 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  37 

would  stop  right  short  an'  call  urn  fools,  say  dey 
git  his  brains  all  stirred  up.  Hit  didn't  take 
much  ter  git  Marse  Jeemes's  brains  stirred  up ! 

"I  tole  you  he  ain't  got  no  'pinion  er  women 
folks.  One  day  he  tryin'  ter  set  me  ergin  um; 
he  'gun  ter  quote  scriptur'  an'  sich  lack.  He  tell 
me  dat  St.  Paul  say  in  de  Bible  dat  'oman  am 
de  weaker  wessel,  an'  den  he  say  dat's  so,  dat  dey 
ain't  got  no  sense  an'  no  strength  an'  ain't  no 
^count,  no  how. 

^'Dat  kinder  riled  me,  an'  I  ups  an'  says,  I 
ain't  guine  ter  'spute  St.  Paul  no  way  nur  fashion, 
but  dis  I  will  say,  dat  ef  'oman  be  de  weaker  wes- 
sel, I  tell  3'ou,  sar,  she  carries  er  full  sail. 

*'l  wuz  studyin'  right  den  'bout  my  wife,  Xancy. 
I  knowed  mighty  good  when  dat  'oman  git  her 
head  sot  on  doin'  suppen  I  sprecify  she  slian't 
do,  I  might  git  ez  mad  ez  thunder  an'  turn  de 
house  upside  down,  but  dat  ain't  'sturb  her  none; 
she  guine  have  her  way  jist  de  same. 

"Dat  weak,  little  wessel  wid  er  full  sail  ain't 
guine  let  all  my  stormin'  an'  blowin'  capsize  her, 
wuth  er  cent;  she  guine  sail  right  whar  she  boun', 
'dout  axin'  no  odds  er  Joe  Pinetop,  dat's  sartin." 

This  reflection  seemed  to  be  highly  gratifying 
to  Uncle  Joe;  he  chuckled  over  it  in  great  delight. 
He  resumed :  "I  alus  shall  believe  Marse  Jeemes 
wuz  erbout  half  cracked.  One  day  he  sont  for 
Nancy,  an'  tell  her  he  'mos'  dead,  dat  he  de  b'le'e 
he  dyin'  sho  'nuff.  Off  I  goes  post-haste  fer  Dr. 
Jones.  Wliile  I  gone  Marse  Jeemes  tell  Nancv 
he  so  nigh  dead  he  can't  talk  no  mo',  dat  he  speech- 
less. When  Dr.  Jones  come,  Nancy  tells  him 
whut  Marse  Jeemes  say,  an'  den  de  doctor  goes 


38  The    Eyrie, 

to  de  bed  an'  axes  'im  some  questions.  Marse 
Jeemes  jist  shake  his  head,  his  tongue  done  stiff. 
Dr.  Jones  'zamines  ^im  good,  an'  den  he  turn  ter 
Nancy  an'  say :  ^Dis  is  er  mighty  sick  man ;  sum- 
pen  must  be  done  at  once.  Nancy,  go  make  me 
a  big  mustard  plaster,  an'  fetch  it  here  quick.^ 

"When  Nancy  fotch  dat  plaster  de  doctor  tied 
it  tight  eroun'  Marse  Jeemes's  body  wid  strips 
er  cloth.  Den  he  sont  Nancy  outen  de  room,  tuck 
er  book,  an'  sot  do^Ti  by  er  window  ter  read,  an* 
ain't  pay  no  'tention  ter  Marse  Jeemes.  When 
dat  mustard  'gun  ter  burn  purty  bad  Marse  Jeemes, 
he  'gun  ter  fidget  an'  fling  his  arms  erbout,  but 
Dr.  Jones  'ten'  lack  he  ain't  take  no  notice  er  dat. 
Presney  dat  mustard  git  too  much  fer  Marse 
Jeemes.  He  can't  stand  it  no  longer,  so  he  jumps 
right  up  in  bed  an'  hollers  out  at  de  top  er  his 
lungs:  ^Doctor,  for  de  Lord's  sake,  take  dis  con- 
f-eunded  thing  offen  me,     I's  burnin'  up.' 

"Den  Dr.  Jones  flung  back  his  head  an'  laugh 
fit  ter  kill  hisse'f,  an'  Marse  Jeemes  cut  up  lack 
he  gone  clean  'stracted. 

"Presney  Dr.  Jones  say,  'Well,  Nancy,  come  an 
take  ofl  de  mustard  plaster,  it  have  done  its  work, 
it  have  gi'n  speech  ter  de  dumb  an'  brung  de  dead 
ter  life !'  Den  he  'mos'  split  his  sides  er  laffin.' 
I  seed  de  doctor  know  Marse  Jeemes  wa'n't  sick 
sho'  'nuff,  he  jist  play  in'  'possum. 

"But  ez  long  ez  Marse  Jeemes  lib,  ef  you  want 
to  see  him  riled  an'  heer  him  cuss,  you  just  'gin 
ter  talk  erbout  dat  mustard  plaster. 

"Pore  ole  Marse  Jeemes !  'Fo'  de  war  he  wuz 
one  er  de  big  bugs,  an'  had  piles  an'  piles  er 
money;  but  a' ter  he  los'  his  money  an'  darkies,  he 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  39 

come  down  might}'  po'.  His  head  wuz  stuffed  full 
er  book-r'arnin',  an'  dar  wa'n't  no  room  in  dar 
fer  no  commonsense.  He  say  he  don't  want  none 
er  dat  stuff,  dat  er  raccoon  got  jest  ez  much  com- 
mensense  ez  anvbod}'.  (He  got  morn  Marse 
Jeemes,  dat's  de  trufe !) 

"Pole  ole  ^larster !  I  wonders  whar  he  be  an' 
whut  he  doin'  sense  he  ceasted.  He  say  he  'spect 
ter  spen'  his  time  studyin'  de  stars,  jis'  sportin' 
'roun  frum  one  ter  t'other.  He  'clar's  he's  guine 
turn  ter  dust,  ter  be  sartin,  but  dat  dust  guine 
turn  ter  flowers  an'  weeds,  an'  de  potter-carriers 
guine  bottle  some  uv  it  up  an'  sell  it  ter  sick  folks. 
He  sprecify  dat  nuffin'  ain't  nebber  guine  die  she' 
'nuff,  hit  jest  guine  turn  ter  suppen  else. 

"I  ain't  say  I  b'le'e  dat,  but  maybe  Marse  Jeemes 
is  turned  ter  a  goose." 


40  The    Eyrie, 


V. 

ON  THE  AMAZON. 

MoojQ'LiGHT  on  the  great  Montana.  Along  the 
banks  of  the  Amazon  gleam  the  white  tents  of  the 
cinchona  merchant  and  his  cascarilleros. 

The  toil  of  the  day  is  over;  most  of  the  waxen 
tapers  within  the  tents  are  extmguished ;  the  Bra- 
zilian bark  hunters  have  retired  to  rest;  and  the 
stillness  which  broods  over  the  vast  forest  is  broken 
only  by  the  screams  of  the  howling  monkeys,  and 
now  and  again  the  monrnful  cry  of  the  nighthawk, 
known  as  the  alma  perdita,  or  lost  sonl. 

The  ambiaba  trees,  with  their  white  trunks  and 
silvery  leaves  gleaming  against  the  dark  back- 
ground of  the  forest,  look  weird  and  beautiful  in 
the  moonlight. 

Standing  beneath  a  luxuriant  mimosa  tree,  whose 
drooping  branches  trail  into  the  water,  is  a  young 
and  beautiful  girl.  In  her  hands  are  large  clus- 
ters of  the  exquisite  violet  flowers  of  the  juvia 
tree.  She  is  watching  a  white  umbrella  bird  and 
a  scarlet  flamingo,  and  so  intent  is  she,  and  so 
still  is  the  night,  that  she  gives  a  quick  start  when 
close  beside  her  a  few  notes  are  struck  on  a  guitar, 
followed  in  a  moment  by  a  rich  baritone  voice 
which  she  recognizes. 

"Maiden,  come,  my  doat  is  waiting," 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  41 

The  music  rings  out  clear  as  a  bell  over  the  wa- 
ter, and  the  next  instant  a  canoe  comes  in  sight. 
Its  sole  occupant  is  a  man  clad  in  a  scarlet  poncho 
of  vicuna  wool.  He  has  removed  his  sombrero  and 
is  reclining  in  the  stern  of  the  boat.  As  he  touches 
the  strings  of  the  guitar,  his  eye  is  taking  in,  with 
all  the  keen  delight  of  an  artist,  the  calm,  weird 
beauty  of  the  tropic  scene.  iSTo  sooner  does  he 
perceive  the  girl  than  he  drops  his  guitar,  the  canoe 
shoots  forward,  and  the  next  instant  he  springs 
ashore  and  takes  her  hand. 

"You  here?"  he  says.  "Xow,  this  is  charming. 
Come,  let's  go  a  little  way  up  the  river;  there  is 
a  gentle  breeze  out  there,  and  the  air  is  as  soft  as 
balm.  Was  there  ever  such  a  beautiful  night? 
See  here,"  he  continued,  as  he  lifts  her  into  the 
canoe.  "See  here,  I  have  shot  some  macaws  and 
toucans  fojf  your  breakfast.  And  best  of  all,  here 
is  a  big,  fat  jacana,  or  water-hen;  you  may  pre- 
serve its  crest  of  twelve  black  feathers  to  swell  3'our 
Kst  of  curios,  if  you  like.  And  look  at  the  head 
of  this  big  king  vulture,  what  a  beautiful  shade 
of  orange  it  is ;  but  you  can  see  that  better  by 
daylight.  Its  plumage  is  a  delicate  cream  color. 
You  see  I  have  not  been  entirely  idle  this  after- 
noon, nor  have  I  forgotten  that  a  very  cruel  and 
blood-thirsty  maiden  would  expect  some  trophy 
upon  my  return,  and  would  be  disappointed  if  I 
presented  myself  empty-handed." 

The  girl's  sweet,  silvery  laugh  rings  out  over 
the  water. 

"And  there  you  are  quite  right,"  she  sa}'^.  '^When 
I  came  to  the  Montana  with  papa,  I  exacted  a 
promise  from  Mm,  that  he  and  all  the  cascarilleros 


42  The    Eyrie, 

should  lay  all  their  trophies  in  the  shape  of  ani- 
mals and  birds  at  my  feet,  so  that  I  might  select 
whatever  I  wish  to  preserve.  This  king-fisher 
(how  beautiful  he  is!)  my  tiger  crane,  flamingo, 
and  other  rare  birds,  as  well  as  my  ocelot,  arma- 
dillo, and  puma,  I  shall  have  mounted  by  a  taxi- 
dermist at  Para.  When  we  return  to  Eio,  don't 
you  think  I  had  better  open  a  museum?" 

"A  capital  idea.  I  will  give  you  half  my  studio 
for  the  exhibition.'^ 

"You  are  very  generous.  I  will  consider  your 
olfer.  By  the  way,  Mr.  Foster,  have  you  been 
painting  any  more  pictures?  Not  any  so  beauti- 
ful as  the  moonlight  scene  in  the  Passeo  Publico, 
I  am  quite  sure.  I  like  that  much  better  than  any 
of  3'our  forest  pictures." 

"The  picture  that  I  value  most,  the  one  that 
is  far  the  most  beautiful,  is  that  of  yourself.  And 
this  picture  is  indelibly  engraved  on — my  heart." 

Lilly  Brandon  gives  him  a  quick  glance,  then 
says  with  a  half -pensive  smile : 

'^Ve  have  been  very  happy  here,  have  we  not? 
I  wonder  shall  we  ever  see  the  grand  old  forest 
again.  I  am  saddened  at  the  thought  of  leaving 
it." 

"This  is  a  land  of  enchantment,  romance  and 
dreams.  See  the  water-lilies  gleaming  in  the 
moonlight.  They  were  once  maidens  like  you,  but 
have  been  changed  by  the  enchanter's  wand  into 
these  white  flowers.  I  am  under  the  spell  of  all 
this  beauty  and  witchery  to-night,  and  there  is  no 
telling  what  absurd  things  I  may  say  or  do.  If 
I  turn  you  over  into  the  river  it  will  not  be  my 
fault;  the  enchanters  must  bear  all  the  blame." 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  43 

His  dark  eyes  have  a  magnetic  power  to-night, 
and  the  girl  at  his  side  feels  a  strange  thrill  under 
their  intent  gaze. 

"Suppose  we  never  go  back,"  he  says,  presently. 
"Suppose  we  go  on,  and  on,  and  on." 

"It  is  time  for  us  to  return,  even  now,"  she 
says,  a  little  anxiously. 

He  laughs. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  little  white  flower.    I  shall  not 

turn  the  boat  over  unless "  he  moves  closer  to 

her  and  takes  her  hand — "unless  you  tell  me  that 
you  would  rather  live  with  your  sister-flowers  out 
there  than  to  be  my  Lilly,  mine,  I  say,  henceforth 
and  forever." 

The  boat  is  drifting  on.  He  still  holds  her 
hand. 

''You  love  me,  then  ?"  she  asks,  in  a  tone  so  low 
he  bends  his  head  to  catch  it. 

'TTes,  I  love  you  with  my  whole  soul,  with  every 
fibre  of  my  being.     I  love  yoUj, 


tt  c 


With  a  love  that  never  shall  die, 
'Till  the  sun  grows  cold. 
And  the  stars  are  old. 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgement  Boole  unfold.' 


f» 


The  man's  magnetism  and  ardor  hold  the  girl 
entranced,  spellbound.  Suddenly  his  mood  changes. 
A  soft  light  comes  into  his  face.  He  raises  her 
hand  to  his  lips  and  says  in  a  voice  grown  very 
gentle  and  entreating: 

"Pardon,  sweetheart.  I  see  I  have  frightened 
you  with  my  mad  wooing.     Pardon,  my  beautiful 


44  The    Eyrie, 

white  flower,  and  tell  me — yes,  tell  me  truly  if  you 
love  me." 

"Yes,  I  love  you,"  replies  the  girl,  very  simply. 
"I  love  you  with  all  my  heart." 

He  stoops  and  presses  a  long,  lingering  kiss  on 
her  lips;  then  lifting  her  to  her  feet,  they  stand 
upright  in  the  boat.  For  a  moment  he  gazes  at 
the  beautiful  scene  around  them,  then  up  at  the 
brilliant  constellations  overhead. 

"Here,  th^n,  in  this  enchanted  forest,  on  the 
bosom  of  the  Amazon,  under  the  Southern  Cross, 
we  plight  our  troth,  vowing  to  love  each  other  until 
death  us  do  part." 

The  boat  is  drifting  on.     They  sit  down  again. 

Suddenly  on  the  silence  of  the  night  there  sounds 
a  roar  that  shakes  the  forest,  and  is  blood-curdling 
in  its  ferocity.  The  girl  gives  a  smothered  cry, 
and  turns  white  to  the  lips.  With  one  quick  ap- 
prehensive, penetrating  glance  in  all  directions 
around  him,  Foster  soon  perceives  at  a  distance 
of  a  few  hundred  feet,  on  the  farther  bank  of  the 
river,  the  cat-like  form  of  some  animal  which  ap- 
pears to  be  following  the  canoe. 

They  are  now  some  distance  from  the  main  body 
of  the  river,  having  unconsciously  entered  a  tribu- 
tary stream,  which  at  this  point  is  not  more  than 
fifty  feet  wide.  Thoroughly  aroused  to  the  dan- 
ger of  the  situation,  Foster  applies  his  oars  with 
vigor,  and  tries  to  out-distance  their  pursuer.  The 
animal  now  comes  boldly  into  view,  and  the  moon- 
light falling  on  its  flanks  reveals  the  black  resetted 
body  of  a  huge  jaguar.  It  is  steadily  following 
them,  sometimes  stealthily,  sometimes  boldly, 
watching  a  favorable  opportunity  for  attack. 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  45 

The  stream  is  becoming  narrower,  and  the  dan- 
ger momentarily  more  imminent.  The  only  hope 
of  escape  seems  to  be  to  make  a*sndden  turn,  row 
rapidly  past  the  animal  before  it  becomes  aware 
of  their  intention,  and  reach  the  main  body  of  the 
river  ere  it  can  overtake  them.  Foster  fiilly  real- 
izes the  danger  of  such  a  bold  stroke,  but  no 
other  means  of  escape  presents  itself  to  him.  He 
dares  not  fire  at  the  jaguar,  lest  in  the  uncertain 
light  he  should  miss  his  aim  and  bring  about  a 
more  certain  and  ferocious  attack. 

Carefully  placing  his  pistols  on  the  seat  beside 
him,  by  a  rapid  movement  he  turns  the  canoe.  The 
next  moment  the  little  skiff  shoots  forward  like 
an  arrow  under  the  powerful  strokes  of  his  mus- 
cular arms.  The  jaguar  seeing  his  prey  about  to 
escape,  seems  to  form  a  sudden  resolution.  In 
three  bounds  he  attains  a  point  directly  opposite 
the  canoe,  and  crouching  a  moment,  makes  a  bold 
plunge.  As  his  body  shoots  through  the  air,  the 
black  rosettes  on  his  yellow  skin  gleam  like  huge, 
baleful  eyes. 

The  girl  in  the  canoe  gives  a  piercing  scream, 
and  falls  forward  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  en- 
tirely unconscious. 

Quickly  seizing  one  of  his  revolvers  Foster  fires, 
and  knows  from  the  sudden  growl  that  the  ball  has 
not  missed  its  mark. 

Though  evidently  wounded  the  infuriated  beast 
will  not  relinquish  the  desperate  onset.  It  is  gain- 
ing upon  them.  It  is  only  a  few  feet  from  the 
boat.  Foster  empties  his  other  revolver.  The 
shot  takes  effect  in  the  animal's  neck. 

The  canoe  now  almost  bounds  from  the  water 


4-6  The    Eyrie, 

under  Foster's  masterly  strokes,  and  the  jaguar,  his 
strength  gradually  failing,  is  seen  to  drop  behind. 
In  a  little  while  its  body  sinks  beneath  the  waves, 
and  a  dark  red  stain  mars  the  beauty  of  the  lim- 
pid blue  water  of  the  Amazon. 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  47 


VI. 

DIVIDED. 

Long,  ■undulating  stretches  of  yellow  sand.  Bleak 
and  barren  hills  gleaming  white  in  the  moonlight. 
No  sound  to  break  the  stillness  save  the  murmur 
of  the  ocean,  and  the  faint  and  distant  sound  of 
harp  and  violin.  The  moon  that  floats  overhead 
in  a  cloudless  sky  is  at  its  full,  and  from  the  win- 
dows of  the  white  cottages  along  the  beach  flash 
innumerable  lights.  Far  away  to  the  south  gleams 
Bod/s  Island  light,  like  a  brilliant  star  of  great 
magnitude.  Strolling  slowly  along  the  beach  are 
a  man  and  a  woman.  They  are  walking  in  the  di- 
rection of  Jockey's  Eidge,  and  have  left  the  other 
couples  far  behind.  On  the  face  of  the  man  is 
an  expression  of  deep  sadness.  The  woman  re- 
gards him  for  a  moment,  then  lays  her  hand 
gently  on  his  arm. 

"Something  is  troubling  you.     What  is  it?" 

He  turns  and  looks  intently  into  the  dark  eyes 
raised  questioningly  to  his.  For  a  moment  he 
does  not  reply,  then  he  says  in  a  voice  whose  calm- 
ness belies  the  deep  emotion  which  is  blanching  his 
face: 

"I  cannot  tell  you.  My  lips  must  be  dumb. 
But  I  feel  that  between  you  and  me  there  are  times 
when  audible  speech  is  unnecessary.     I  must  leave 


48  The    Eyrie, 

you  to-morrow.  For  the  few  hours  that  remain 
let  us  strive  to  banish  painful  thoughts/' 

"I  shall  miss  you  so.  These  summer  days  have 
been  the  happiest  of  my  life.  What  shall  I  do 
when  you  are  gone  ?  I  shall  be  so  lonely,  so  dread- 
fully lonely.^' 

"Yes,  I  know;  and  that  is  the  hardest  part 
of  going.  If  I  could  only  bear  all  the  pain  that 
this  parting  must  bring !  But  I  have  known  for 
many  days  that  such  will  not  be  the  case." 

"Then,  why  will  you  go  ?'^ 

She  raises  her  beautiful  dark  eyes  to  his  with 
a  look  so  imploring  that  he  turns  away.  But  in 
a  moment  he  stands  before  her  with  a  firm,  set 
face.  There  is  a  note  of  reproach  and  entreaty 
in  his  voice,  as  he  answers : 

"Do  not  tempt  me.  You  know  why  I  must  go. 
I  have  already  stayed  too  long,  far  too  long." 

"This  friendship  of  ours  has  been  so  beautiful, 
so  sweet.  What  harm  can  it  do  to  her  or  you  or 
me?  All  my  life  I  have  wanted  a  friend  like 
you,  one  who  at  once  understands  and  sympathizes 
with  all  my  feelings.  Do  you  know  that  I  have 
often  thought  this  a  most  singular  thing.  I  won- 
der why  you  alone  of  all  people  in  the  world  should 
understand  me." 

He  cannot  repress  a  sad  smile  at  the  singular 
guilelessness  of  this  woman,  whose  heart  he  reads 
like  an  open  book.  His  voice  is  very  gentle,  as  he 
says: 

"Some  day  the  scales  will  fall  from  your  eyes, 
and  then  you  will  see  things  as  they  really  are. 
On  that  day  you  will  understand  why  to-night 
I  tell  you  I  must  leave  you.^" 


i} 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  49 

"But  our  friendship  has  been  so  beautiful/'  she 
repeats,  in  a  tone  of  deep  sadness  and  reproach. 

"Far  too  beautiful.  But  how  hard  we  have  tried, 
ni)'  sweet  and  noble  friend,  to  be  only  friends.  And 
if  we  have  failed  we  have  done  so  in  all  innocence 
and  good  intent.  I  call  God  to  witness  this  night, 
that  the  feeling  I  have  for  you  is  the  purest,  the 
highest,  the  holiest  that  I  have  ever  felt  for  mortal 
woman.  It  has  changed  and  glorified  my  life. 
Nevertheless,  I  am  not  deceived.  While  I  am 
strong,  let  me  leave  j'ou.  It  is  far  better  that  I 
should  go  now.  The  longer  the  delay  the  greater 
will  be  the  pain.'' 

"It  breaks  my  heart  to  think  of  what  your  life 
will  be."  Her  head  droops  and  her  e3^es  are 
blinded  with  tears. 

"Yes,  my  life  is  a  wreck  not  pleasant  to  con- 
template. But  if  we  sow  to  the  wind  we  must 
reap  the  whirlwind.  For  better,  for  worse,  saith 
the  marriage  vow.  If  the  Dead-Sea  fruit  has 
turned  to  ashes  on  my  lips,  I  must  make  the  best 
of  the  aslies.  My  honor  binds  me  to  keep  the 
faith  I  plighted,  and  God  helping  me,  I  will." 

A  sudden  change  comes  over  the  face  of  the 
woman.     She  la3's  her  hand  gently  on  his  arm. 

Forgive  me !"  she  says,  in  a  low,  earnest  voice. 
Forgive  me !  You  are  so  noble,  so  brave,  so 
strong.  I  shall  think  of  you  always  as  the  noblest 
man  I  ever  knew.  I  did  not  know — indeed,  I  did 
not  know — until  to-night.  I  thought  we  were  only 
friends.  I  have  been  so  happy  that  I  have  not 
dreamed  of  danger.  And  I  have  longed,  so  ear- 
nestly, to  throw  a  little  sunshine  into  j'our  life." 
"Yes,  I  know;  I  understand  and  appreciate.   No 


50  ^he    Eyrie, 


shadow  of  blame  can  attach  to  you.  I  know  that 
your  soul  is  as  spotless  as  snow/^ 

He  stoops  and  raises  her  small  white  hand,  rev- 
erently, to  his  lips.  Then  he  says  in  a  voice  grown 
husky  from  emotion: 

"God  alone  will  ever  know  what  it  costs  me 
to  say  and  to  leave  unsaid  what  I  have  to-night." 

Again  she  raises  her  beautiful  eyes  to  his,  and 
the  light  in  them  seems  to  him  a  glimpse  of 
heaven. 

"Then  know  that  the  scales  have  fallen  from  my 
eyes,  and — I  understand.     And  so,  good-bye." 

A  long,  lingering  hand-clasp,  a  long,  lingering 
look  into  each  other's  eyes,  and, 

''Two  are  wallcing  apart  forever, 
And  wave  their  hands  for  a  mute  farewell." 


And  Other  Southern  Stones.  51 


VII. 

LITTLE  MARSE  HAL. 

'^ES,  sar,  dat's  de  place  whar  my  ole  marster 
useter  lib ;  but,  law !  ef  you  could  er  seen  dat  place 
^fo'  de  war,  when  de  ole  house  wus  dar,  it  would 
er  done  yer  eyes  good  ter  look  at  it.     'Kase  dar 
wa'n't  no  place  'roun'  heer  dat  could  hole  er  light 
ter  dis  one.     "Lord  amassy,   dat  house  de  finis' 
one  ter  be  sho'.    It  had  er  dozen  rooms  in  it,  and 
pi'zass  mighty  nigh  all  eroun'  it.     When  I  shets 
me  eyes  now,  sometimes,  Spears  lack  I  kin  see  it, 
jes'  lack  hit  useter  look  when  ole  marster  was  a 
libin'.     In  de  summertime,  when  de  trees  wus  full 
er  lebes,  an'  de  grass  an'  clober  had  sprung  up  in 
de  yard,  nobody  needn't  want  nothin'   no   better 
dan  to  set  down  under  one  er  dem  trees,  an'  lis- 
ten ter  de  bu'ds  er  singin'  an'  de  locusts  er  hoU'in' 
errywhar'.     Oh,    Lord,    ain't    I    sot    dar    many    a 
time  ub  er  Sunday  ebenin'  an'  git  so  lazy  an'  feel 
so  good  dat  'fo'  I  knowed  it,  I  wus  gone  smack 
ter  sleep. 

"I  thanks  de  Lord  dat  house  neber  got  bu'nt 
up  while  ole  marster  wuz  er  libin'.  'Kase  de  ole 
man's  daddy  built  dat  house,  an'  he  thought  more 
un  it  'an  er  little.  ^Twould  er  broke  'is  heart  ter 
had  dem  purty  trees  'stroyed  lack  dey  wus  be  dat 
far'. 


52  The    Eyrie, 


<n 


'Mistis,  Marse  John  an'  Marse  Seth,  hate  ter 
lose  dat  house  mighty  bad,  an'  Marse  Seth  he  tuck 
de  'shorence  an'  had  er  'nother  one  put  up;  dat 
one  ye  see  dar  now/' 

"Were  Marse  John  an'  Marse  Seth  your  old 
Marster's  children?"  I  asked  of  the  old  negro,  in 
whose  story  I  was  becoming  interested. 

"Marse  John  he  wus,  an'  Marse  Seth  he  wa'n't. 
I'll  tell  ye  how  it  wuz;  ole  Marster  come  be  me 
th'oo  'is  mammy.  She  lef  me  an'  er  pasel  er 
more  niggers  ter  'im  when  she  die.  I  wuz  er  lit- 
tle bit  er  young  un'  when  I  fell  ter  ole  marster,  not 
much  higher  'n  er  bar'l.     I  jes'  kin  'member  it. 

"Ole  Marster  he  wuz  gettin'  'long  right  smart 
in  years  'fo'  he  git  married.  He  had  jes'  had  de 
pie  house  'paired  an'  fixed  up  mighty  fine  when 
he  brung  young  Mistis  home.  I  'members  jes' 
ez  good  ez  ef  it  wuz  yistiddy — de  day  I  fust  seed 
mistis.  She  had  jes'  gittin'  out  de  kerridge,  whar 
stopped  at  de  big  gate,  an'  wuz  walkin'  wid  ole 
marster  to'rds  de  house  when  I  fust  seed  'er.  'Bless 
de  Lord!'  I  say.  '^Ef  dat  ain't  de  purtiest  'oman 
I  eber  sot  me  eyes  on.' 

"I  wuz  hid  'hind  er  tree  er  peepin'  at  um,  when 
presney  I  look,  an'  see  er  little  boy  comin'  'long 
'hind  um  on  krotches.  Dat  wuz  Marse  Seth,  what 
wuz  de  son  ub  mistis's  fust  husban'  'fo'  he  had  her. 
Dat  boy  had  suppen  'nother  de  matter  wid  'is 
knee,  an'  he  couldn't  walk  er  step  widout  dem 
krotches. 

"Well,  a'ter  we  git  'quainted  wid  mistis  we  lub 
'er  mighty  good.  She  wuz  alus  doin'  suppen  fur 
some  un  us,  'mos'  speshly  when  we  gits  sick.  She 
useter  go  right  dar  in  de  kitchen  hers'f  an'  doc- 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  53 

tor  us.  An'  ole  Marster,  he  did,  too.  Ef  dey 
ain't  poured  er  pasel  er  stuff  down  me !  'Kase 
wlien  I  wuz  er  youngun'  I  useter  be  mighty  poo'ly 
sometimes. 

^'  Teared  lack  ole  marster  an'  mistis  alus 
thought  de  worl'  er  me.  Dey  tuck  me  ter  wait 
in  de  house,  an'  'ten'  ter  Marse  Seth.  Dat  boy 
thought  mo'  er  me  ^an  air  nother  darkey  'bout 
de  place. 

"Marse  John,  ole  marster's  fust  son,  he  wuz  er 
gre't,  big,  peart  chile,  an'  ole  marster  wuz  mighty 
proud  er  him.  A'ter  er  while  Miss  Kate  she  come 
erlong.  She  wuz  er  purty  little  thing,  wid  right 
black  eyes  an'  ha'r.  But  none  er  mistis's  chillun 
wa'n't  purty's  little  Marse  Hal.  Mistis  had  er  pasel 
er  chillun,  but  dev  all  die  but  free.  An'  Miss 
Kate  she  wuz  'bout  fifteen  years  older'n  little 
Marse  Hal.  He  wuz  born  'bout  two  years  'fo'  de 
war  broke  out.  Lord !  how  errybody  lubbed  dat 
chile !  He  wuz  jes'  lack  er  little  angul,  an'  de 
sensiblest  chile  I  eber  see.  He  wuz  nothin'  but 
er  baby;  but  de  darkies  all  call  'im  Marse  Hal. 
'Pears  lack  I  kin  see  'im  yit,  trottin'  up  an'  down 
de  front  po'ch,  straddle  er  stick  boss,  wid  'is  yal- 
ler  curls  er-flyin'  out  behind  'im.  Dar  wuz  one 
thing  cur'ous  'bout  dat  chile,  he  alus  had  er  tear 
drop  in  de  corner  ub  'is  eye,  an'  fast  ez  ye'd  wipe 
it  out  it  'u'd  come  again.  Hit  make  'is  eyes  look 
kind  er  solum,  eben  when  he  wuz  laffin'. 

"Dat  chile  did  ha'  de  curisest  notions  ter  be 
she'.  One  night  he  an'  me  wuz  settin'  on  de  front 
steps,  an'  I  look  at  Marse  Hal  an'  see  'im  look- 
in'  mighty  hard  right  up  de  sky.  Presney  I  says, 
^Vhat  ye  thinkin'  'bout,  honey  ?' 


54  The    Eyrie, 

'^  'I  waz  thinkin'/  says  he,  Vhat  de  stars  kin  be. 
What  is  dey,  Unc'  Miles  ?' 

"He  turn  an^  look  right  straight  at  me  wid  'is 
gre't,  big  solum  eyes. 

"  Tjord,  Marse  Hal/  says  I,  'I  dunno  what  dey 
is,  'ceptin'  dey^s  stars/  says  I. 

"  'I'll  tell  ye  what  I  thinks  dey  is/  says  he. 
'I  thinks  dey's  de  good  Lord's  candles/  says  he. 

"'Lord,  Marse  Hal!  What  do  he  do  wid  um 
in  de  da3rtime?'  says  I. 

"  'Why,  Unc'  Miles,  in  corse  he  blows  um  out/ 
says  he. 

"He  sholy  wuz  er  sensible  chile. 

"Marse  Seth,  Marse  John  an'  Miss  Kate,  dey 
wuz  all  gro\\Ti.  Marse  Seth,  he  wuz  free.  An'  ole 
marster,  he  wuz  gittin'  'long  mighty  ole  when 
Marse  Hal  wuz  born;  an'  he  wuz  same  ez  'is  eye- 
balls. 

"We  useter  ha'  mighty  good  times  twell  de  war 
broke  out,  but  dat  upsot  errything.  I  useter  hear 
um  talkin'  'bout  freedom  an'  sich ;  but.  Lord !  I 
didn't  keer  nothin'  'bout  bein'  free.  I  wuz  jist 
ez  happy  ez  er  coon  dar  wid  our  folks,  playin' 
wid  de  chillun,  bilin'  lasses,  poppin'  popcorn  fur 
um,  an'  sich,  Avhen  I  didn't  ha'  no  wuck  ter  do. 
'Pears  lack  dey  all  thought  jam  by  ez  much  er 
me  ez  ef  I  wuz  white  ez  dey  wuz. 

"But  when  de  war  broke  out,  dat  upsot  erry- 
thing. Marse  John  he  wollunteered  an'  went  wid 
er  pasel  mo'  our  mens  do^vn  ter  Ro'noke  Islan'  ter 
'pare  fer  de  Yankees.  Dat  wuz  er  skeerry  time 
shore's  you  er  born !  We  could  hear  dem  cannon 
guns  down  ter  Eo'noke,  gwine  boom  !  boom  !  crack ! 
crack !    Dey  soun'  jes'  lack  thunder. 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  ^^ 

**1  hear  folks  say  some  er  dem  cannon  guns 
down  dar  so  big  er  man  could  git  inside  nn  nm. 
But  thanks  de  Lord !  I  never  know  how  dang'ous 
dey  wuz  twell  a'ter  de  battle  wuz  done,  an'  Eo'noke 
tnck. 

"I  nseter  feel  mighty  sorry  fur  Marse  Seth, 
'long  den.  He  want  ter  go  ter  de  war  so  bad,  an' 
he  couldn't  do  it  'kaze  he  wuz  lame  an'  had  ter 
walk  on  krotches.  I  'members  one  day  he  an' 
Miss  Kate  wuz  settin'  under  de  big  elum  dar  in 
de  lane,  an'  I  wuz  comin'  'long  home  from  ole 
Unc'  Lem's  th'oo  de  fiel',  an'  I  heered  um  talk- 
in'.     Marse  Seth  he  say : 

"  'I  feels  lack  er  coward  when  I  thinks  ub  all 
de  udder  boys  gone  erway  ter  fight  fer  dey  kentry/ 
says  he,  'an'  I  stayin'  home.  I  can't  neber  be  no 
sarvis  ter  my  kentry,'  says  he,  '  'kaze  I  ain't  noth- 
in'  but  er  broken  staff,'  says  he. 

*'  ^ut  ye  kin  be  ub  sarvis  ter  we  all,'  says  Miss 
Kate.  'What  would  we  do  widout  vou?  Father's 
gettin'  ole  an'  feeble,  an'  dar  ain't  nobody  but  you 
ter  'tend  de  farm  an'  look  a'ter  things,'  says  she. 

"He  look  at  her  mighty  gr'teful  lack,  an'  he  say : 

"  'Hit's  er  gre't  pleasure  ter  me  ter  do  all  I 
kin  fer  you  an'  all  dat  I  lubs,'  says  he,  'but  I  kin 
do  mighty  little,'  says  he. 

"  'Ye  don't  do  yerse'f  jistice,'  says  Miss  Kate. 
'Kaze  ye  ain't  strong  an'  well  lack  some  mens 
ain't  no  reason  ye  can't  be  ub  sarvis.  Folks  kin 
wuck  wid  dey  head's  well  ez  wid  dey  hands,'  says 
she. 

"  'Do  I  wuck  verry  hard  wid  my  head,  my  dear  ?' 
says  he,  sorter  smilin'. 

"TTes,  ye  do,'  says  she.     'What  would  become 


S6  The    Eyrie, 

er  de  farm,  an'  who  would  'tend  ter  de  darkies 
ef  it  wa'n't  fer  you,  an'  your  thinkin'  an'  plan- 
nin'?  Ter  say  nothin'  ub  de  comfort  you  is  ter 
Ma  an'  me/  says  she. 

''  ^Do  you  value  my  sarwises  so  highly,  an'  am 
I  r'ally  er  comfort  ter  you,  Kate?' 

"  ^Kin  you  doubt  it  ?'  says  she,  sorter  blushin', 
but  lookin'  up  right  in  'is  face. 

"He  neber  said  nothin',  but  jist  reached  out  an' 
tuck  'er  han'  an'  kissed  it.  An'  den  dey  got  up 
an'  started  fer  de  house.  Dey  didn't  talk  much 
gwine  'long,  an'  hit  'peared  ter  me  dey  look  mighty 
solum. 

"Marse  Seth  an'  Miss  Kate,  dey  wa'n't  no  kin, 
but  eber  sence  dey  wuz  little  chillun  dey  alus 
thought  de  worl'  er  one  'nother. 

"Well,  things  went  'long  sorter  smoove  twell 
we  heard  de  guns  er-firin'  down  ter  Eo'noke,  an' 
knowed  de  Yankees  had  got  dar.  Lord !  ef  we 
wa'n't  skeered  den !  'Kaze  we  wuz  'spectin'  all  de 
time  Marse  John  gwine  git  killed. 

"Dey  wuz  down  dar  seben  mont's  'parin'  fer 
de  Yankees  'fo'  dey  come.  But  when  dey  do  come 
hit  didn't  take  um  long  ter  whip  our  mens. 

"In  corse,  hit  didn't,  dey  might  known  dat; 
'kaze  all  de  odds  wuz  'g'inst  us. 

"I  heered  Marse  John  say  de  fust  thing  dem 
Yankees  done  when  dey  git  dar  'long  side  de  Is- 
lan'  wuz  ter  po'  er  whole  pasel  er  red  hot  shot  ober 
dar,  untwel  dey  sot  de  bar'ks  erfar  an'  bu'nt  um 
up.  Den  dey  pou'd  out  solid  shot  untwel  dey 
lebled  de  bre's-wucks,  yes,  sar,  bles'  yo'  soul,  leb- 
eled  um  ter  de  groun' ! 

^Gen'l  Bu'nside  had  er  powerful  fleet  er  wes- 


(d 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  57 

sels  out  dar ;  yes,  sar,  an'  er  tremenjous  army,  too ; 
an'  how's  Gunnel  Shaw,  wid  his  han'ful  er  mens 
gwine  stan'  g'inst  all  dem  odds?  He  couldn't  do 
it,  dat's  all.  But  Marse  John  say  dey  sho'ly  did 
fight  brave,  our  mens  did.  One  man  jes'  stood 
up  on  top  de  bre's-wuck,  'fo'  dey  to'  it  down,  an' 
spreeted  open  'is  coat  an'  'sposed  'is  bre's,  an'  cuss 
de  Yankees,  an'  holler  at  um  ter  shoot  away  an' 
kill  'im  ef  day  kin.  De  shot  wuz  er  flyin'  roun' 
'im  right  an'  left,  but  'fo'  de  Lord,  dat  man  neber 
so  much  ez  got  'is  skin  scratched !  Hit  sho'ly  was 
cur'ous. 

"Lord  amassv !  I  wouldn't  been  dar  fer  de 
worl'.  Wid  dem  bung-shells  er-bustin'  an'  dem 
cannons  er-farin'  all  eroun',  how  anybody  done 
ter  keep  frum  gittin'  killed  'stonished  me.  One 
er  dem  bung-shells  bu'sted  right  nigh  Marse  John, 
an'  th'owed  'im  down,  an'  kivered  'im  up  in  du't. 
Hit  blowed  de  man  whar  wuz  standin'  by  Marse 
John  way  up  in  de  air,  an'  to'  'im  all  ter  flinders. 
Hit  sholy  wuz  a  wonder  Marse  John  neber  got 
killed,  'kaze  dey  had  ter  dig  him  an'  some  udder 
mens,  whar  got  kivered  up  when  dat  bung-shell 
bu'sted,  smack  outen  de  groun'.  Dey  wuz  nigh 
'bout  smothered  ter  def. 

""When  de  Yankees  landed  dey  had  ter  come 
th'oo  er  ma'sh,  'fo'  dey  could  git  ter  whar  Gunnel 
Shaw's  army  wuz.  An'  our  mens,  dey  had  two 
gre't,  big  cannon  guns  sot  right  at  de  een'  er  dat 
road,  jist  er-playin'  on  um  ez  dey  come  erlong. 
One  man  jist  tuck  an'  stood  right  on  top  er  one 
er  dem  guns,  an'  dar  he  stood,  wid  'is  s'o'd  in  'is 
han',  cuttin'  some  er  dem  Yankees  all  ter  pieces, 
twell  dey  killed  'im.     Yes,  sar,  dey  jes'  made  sas- 


58  The    Eyrie, 

sage  meat  outen  ^im.  He  wiiz  de  biggis  fool  I 
eber  see  ter  th'oo  hisse'f  erway  in  dat  fashion. 

^^fVell,  sar,  de  Yankees,  dey  went  o'  dem  can- 
nons ;  dey  didn't  keer  f er  nm ! 

"Our  mens  dey  fon't  mighty  brave,  bnt  dey 
couldn't  stan'  'g'inst  all  dem  Yankees — dey  might 
known  dat — so  dey  had  ter  h'ist  de  white  flag  an' 
s'render.  Den  de  Yankees  tnck  um  pris'nns,  an' 
put  nm  on  a  gre't,  big  boat  whar  dey  call  de  ^Spanl- 
din'/  an'  neber  gin  nm  nothin'  ter  eat  'ceptin' 
raw  pork  an'  hard  tack.  , 

"Mistis,  she  nseter  sen'  Marse  John  er  pasel 
er  cakes  an'  sassage,  ^'  one  stuff  er  'nother,  when 
de  boats  went  down  ter  Eo'noke,  'fo'  de  Yankees 
git  dar.  But  a'ter  dey  tuck  um  pris'nus,  dey  jamby 
starve  ter  def.  'Kaze  how's  my  young  marster, 
whar  wuz  useter  de  fat  er  de  Ian',  gwine  eat  dat 
hard  tack,  whar  wuz  jes'  lack  chips,  er  dat  po'k, 
whar  dey  ain't  cook  none  'ceptin'  po'in'  hot  water 
on  to  it  in  de  bar'l?  Jes'  well  gi'  it  ter  'im  raw 
ez  not  ter  cook  it  no  better'n  dat. 

"Marse  Jolm,  he  jis'  tuck  an'  heaved  it  o'erboard 
when  dey  gi'  it  ter  him.  Lord !  ef  I  ain't  heerd 
Marse  John  tell  'bout  dem  things  so  much  hit 
nigh  'bout  'pears  ter  me  I  fou't  down  ter  Ro'noke 
mese'f. 

"Some  our  folks  'bout  heer  dey  got  all  de  boats 
dey  could  fine,  an'  sunk  um  upside  down,  dar  in 
de  channel,  twixt  Eo'noke  Islan'  an'  Croatan ;  try- 
in'  fer  ter  keep  de  Yankees  frum  guine  ter  Liz'- 
beth  CitA\  But  'twa'n't  no  use !  De  Yankees 
didn't  make  no  mo'  er  dem  boats  'an  de  would 
er  turkle;  dey  jis'  blowed  um  all  ter  flinders,  an' 
come  right  erlong  th'oo. 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  59 

''When  dey  git  dar  ter  town  dey  ^leased  de  pris- 
'ners,  an'  Marse  John  come  home.  Lord !  ef  we 
wa'n't  glad  ter  see  'im !  Mistis  an'  Miss  Kate  dey 
right  nachly  cried  fer  joy.  Marse  John  sho'ly 
did  look  scan'lus  do !  He  hadn't  been  shaved  none 
ner  had  'is  hair  cut  none  in  jamby  eight  months. 
He  sho'ly  did  'mind  me  ub  er  b'ar.  He  look  right 
grizzly. 

"Well,  he  stayed  long  dar  home  right  smart 
while,  den  he  went  erway  ergin  ter  fight  de  Yan- 
kees some  mo'.  He  wa'n't  done  yit.  'Pears  lack 
he  hate  de  Yankees  so  bad  he  couldn't  res'  'dout 
he's  fightin'  um. 

"We  all  sho'ly  did  feel  lonesome  a'ter  Marse 
John  lef .  Hit  seem  jis'  lack  somebody  ner  wuz 
dead.  We  didn't  know  what  wuz  gwine  ter  come 
er  him  er  de  rest  er  our  folks  'nother.  'Kaze  de 
Yankees,  when  de  git  dar  to  'Liz'beth  City,  dey 
jis'  scattered  all  0'  de  kentry,  rippin'  an'  tearin'  an' 
doin'.  Some  er  our  mens  j'in'd  um,  an'  called 
dese'f  buff'loes.  When  our  folks  heered  er  dat 
dey  wuz  mad  ez  blazes.  01  e  marster  an'  Marse 
Seth  cussed  um  blue,  'kaze  dey  jine  de  Yankees, 
er-fightin'  'g'inst  dey  own  folks. 

"Twixt  all  dem  an'  de  g'rillers,  what  dey  call 
bush-whackers,  'kaze  dey  hide  'hind  bushes,  trees 
an'  sich  lack,  an'  fights  on  de  sly — twixt  all  dem, 
thinks  I,  how's  anybody  gwine  keep  frum  gittin' 
killed.  I  wuz  so  skeered  I  didn't  know  what  ter 
do.  Sometimes  T  couldn't  eben  ha'  de  heart  ter 
pray  none.  Ef  it  hadn't  been  fer  lebin'  our  folks, 
I  b'le'e  I'd  er  gone  in  de  woods  an'  hid  in  er  holler 
tree,  lack  er  squir'l.  But  some  er  de  darkies  wuz 
happy  ez  dey  kin  be,  'kaze  dey  hope  de  Yankees 


6o  The    Eyrie, 

gwine  whip,  an'  dey  kin  git  de  frednm.  But  dat 
"vra'n't  me.  No,  sar !  I  wuz  jis'  ez  free  ez  I 
want  ter  be. 

"Some  er  de  niggers  done  gone  ter  jine  de  Yan- 
kees. But  none  er  ole  marster's  hadn't  gone  yit. 
Dey  neber  lef  twell  de  nigger  reg'ment  come.  Dat 
wuz  er  skeerry  time,  shore's  you  er  born !  Dey 
had  white  officers  o'  um ;  but  when  de  folks  seed 
all  dem  nigger  pickets  all  about,  dey  sutney  wuz 
skeered.  One  night  er  pasel  er  um  come  out  our 
way,  an'  camped  right  out  yander  in  de  fiel'.  When 
hit  got  good  an'  dark  we  could  see  de  camp-far's 
er  burnin',  an'  all  dem  soldiers  gethered  roun'. 
Dat's  de  fust  time  I  seed  Marse  Seth  skeered.  He 
didn't  know  how  many  er  ole  marster's  darkies 
he  could  'pend  on,  an'  wid  all  dem  niggers  out 
dar  so  nigh  de  house,  hit  wuz  dang'ous.  So  Marse 
Seth,  widout  sayin'  er  word  ter  nobody,  he  went 
out  dat  night  an'  axed  de  white  Cap'n  ter  sen'  er 
guard  ter  'tect  our  folks.  An'  he  done  it,  too; 
but  de  guard  was  mostly  niggers  do.  Dey  neber 
pestered  nuffin ;  but  next  mornin'  dey  wuz  all  gone, 
an'  nigh  'bout  all  er  ole  marster's  darkies  done 
gone  wid  um.  Der  wa'n't  but  five  lef  'sides  me, 
an'  ole  marster  had  sixty  head  un  um.  Jamby  all 
de  darkies  'bout  heer  went  o5  dat  night  an'  jine 
de  nigger  sold'ers. 

"I  went  out  dar  nex'  mornin'  ter  whar  dey  had 
de  camps,  an'  bless  yo'  soul !  ef  dey  hadn't  bu'nt 
up  nigh  'bout  all  de  fence  'roun'  de  fiel'.  An'  dem 
wuz  bran'  new  Cyprus  rails,  too.  I  wuz  so  put 
out  I  didn't  know  what  ter  do,  'kaze  I  knowed  I 
had  ter  go  right  ter  wuck  an'  maul  some  mo'. 

"Well,  arter  dat  I  didn't  git  so  mighty  skeered 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  6i 

twell  de  g'rillers  come  a'ter  de  horses.  Dey  come 
one  night  an'  'manded  de  stable  key  f  um  ole 
marster,  say  dey  wanted  some  hosses.  Dar  wuz 
er  whole  pasel  im  nm,  an'  ole  marster  knowed  he 
didn't  ha'  no  way  ter  'zist  um,  so  he  gin  nm  de 
key.  Two  er  th'ee  weeks  'fo'  dat  I  had  gitten  two 
gre't,  big  car'y-log  chains  an'  stretched  nm  'cross 
de  stable  do'  an'  fastened  um  tight,  ter  keep  any- 
body frum  gittin'  dem  hosses.  I  knowed  dem 
critters  couldn't  come  th'oo  de  chains  ter  sabe 
der  life.  De  g'rillers  dey  fumbled  an'  dey  fum- 
bled at  de  chains,  tryin'  fer  ter  ondo  um,  but  dey 
couldn't  do  it  do.  I  wuz  hid  'hind  de  kitchen, 
watchin'  um.  When  dey  fine  dey  can't  ondo  de 
chains,  dey  'gun  ter  holler  at  de  hosses,  an'  dey 
skeered  um  so  bad  dey  jest  squatted  right  down 
an'  come  smack  under  dem  chains,  an'  went 
er-rippin'  an'  kittin'  all  ober  de  barn-lot.  De  g'ril- 
lers tuck  a'ter  um,  tryin'  fer  ter  ketch  um ;  but 
dey  must  er  knowed  who  dey  wuz,  'kaze  dey  jist 
snorted  an'  kicked  up  der  heels,  an  'tickler  de  mules, 
an'  run  so  fas'  ye  might  jis'  ez  well  try  ter  ketch 
lightnin'  ez  dem  creeters.  When  I  seed  de  g'rillers 
runnin'  an'  hollerin'  fit  ter  break  der  neck,  I  jis' 
holler  out: 

"  ^Go  it,  now !  Ketch  um  ef  ye  kin !'  'kaze  I 
knowed  dey  couldn't  do  it  ter  sabe  der  gizzards. 
I  'spected  ev'ry  minute  ter  see  some  er  dem  mules 
kick  um  high  ez  er  kite.  Presney  dey  lebe,  mad 
ez  dey  kin  be.  But  dey  ain't  git  no  hosses  her 
mules  nuther ;  'kaze  dem  creeters  had  too  much 
sense  ter  be  ketch  by  er  pack  er  varments  lack 
dem  g'rillers." 


62  The    Eyrie, 

Uncle  Miles  shook  with  laughter  over  the  recol- 
lection of  this  scene.     He  resumed: 

"We  wuz  right  'tween  two  far's.  I  dunno  which 
I  wuz  de  skeerdest  un,  de  buff'loes  er  de  g'rillers. 
'Peared  lack  dey  wuz  jis'  let  loose.  Dey  had  er  heart 
lack  er  turkle;  dey  didn't  keer  fer  nothin'. 

"When  de  darkies  seed  um  comin'  dey  would 
put  right  off  er-porin'  fer  de  ^quarters.' 

"  'Long  'bout  dem  times  we  couldn't  hardly 
make  out  ter  stem  de  tide.  We  wuz  study  'spect- 
in'  ter  git  killed.  I  tell  you,  sar,  'twas  er  hard 
row  er  stumps. 

"We  useter  hear  f'um  Marse  John  sometimes. 
One  time  he  writ  us  he  got  wounded  in  de  arm, 
an  erner  time  dat  dey  had  tuck  'im  pris'ner.  An' 
presney  heer  come  er  letter  sayin'  he  had  fell  in 
lub  wid  de  prison-keeper's  da' ter;  an'  he  say  he 
gwine  ter  marry  her,  an  fetch  'er  home  wid  'im 
when  he  come.  Mistis,  she  writ  an'  say  she  can't 
neber  gi'  her  consent  fer  Marse  John  ter  marry 
er  Yankee  gal.  He  writ  back  dat  he  can't  gi' 
up  'is  sweetheart  fer  nobody,  not  eben  'is  ma,  good 
ez  he  lub  her.  He  say  he  gwine  git  married  ef 
he  lib,  jist  ez  soon  ez  de  war  wuz  ober.  An'  he 
done  it,  too.  When  Marse  John  git  'is  head  sot 
on  doin'  anythin'  he  gwine  do  it  sho',  an'  errybody 
jis'  well  keep  der  mouf  shet. 

"Well,  we  got  'long  right  smart  and  didn't  ha' 
much  trouble  smack  twell  Eichmond  fell.  Our 
folks  sho'ly  did  grebe  ter  hear  dat.  It  clean  broke 
ole  Marster's  heart.  Hit  useter  make  me  cry  ter 
see  'im  gwine  'bout  dar,  wid  'is  head  bowed  down, 
lack  he  lost  his  las'  frien'.  He  wuz  mighty  ole 
an'  po'ly,  an'  dat  finished  'im. 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  63 

"Xot  many  days  a'ter  de  news  come  'bont  Eich- 
mon',  I  seed  ole  Marster  settin'  under  de  big  oak 
in  de  yard.  Dar  he  sot,  leaning  up  ergin  de  tree, 
an'  his  hat  an'  stick  had  fell  on  de  groim'.  He 
look  kinder  ciir'oiis,  an'  I  'gun  ter  git  mighty 
skeered.  I  run  ter  'im,  an'  called  'im  an'  shuch 
'im,  an'  begged  'im  ter  speak  jis'  one  mo'  M'ord 
ter  po'  ole  Miles  what  lubed  'im  so  true;  but  he 
wuz  dead,  sar  !  Dead  an'  cole,  an'  stil?  I  He  wa'n't 
neber  gwine  speak  ter — me  no  mo' — twell  we  meets 
— whar  der  ain't  gwine  be  no  mo'  partin'  an'  whar 
de  tears  is  all  gwine  be  wiped  erway.     Amen ! 

"A'ter  we  laid  'im  out  in  de  big  parlor,  I  seed 
little  Marse  Hal  er-peepin'  in  dar  th'oo  de  do'.  I 
ax  'im  what  he  doin'.  He  look  up  at  me  wid  er 
cur'ous  look  in  dem  purty  blue  eyes  an'  he  say 
kinder  low  an'  solum : 

"  'I's  watchin'  fer  de  anguls,  Unc'  Miles.  Ma 
says  when  good  peoples  dies,  de  angels  comes  an' 
takes  um  home  ter  heben.  Pa's  good.  Why  don't 
dey  come  a'ter  him?' 

"  ^Maybe  dey's  already  been,  little  Marster,'  says 

^  • 

"  'No,  dey  ain't,'  says  he,  '  'kaze  I's  been  watch - 
in'  fer  um  all  day.  I  wants  ter  see  um  when  dey 
comes,  an'  ax  um  ter  take  me,  too;  'kaze  Pa'll  be 
lonesome  widout  me.  He'll  miss  me  so  bad,  Unc' 
Miles.' 

"  'Lord,  honey !  Don't  you  talk  like  that,'  says 
I.  'An'  don't  you  watch  fer  de  anguls  no  mo'.  I 
^specks  dey's  already  been  an'  tuck  ole  Marster 
home  ter  heb'n.  Anguls  ain't  nufhn'  but  sperits, 
an'  you  can't  see  er  sperit,'  sa3'S  I. 

"I  knowed  I  wuz  lyin'  ter  dat  chile.     'Kaze  ain't 


64  The    Eyrie, 

I  seed  many  er  sperit  wid  dese  heer  eyes  er  mine. 
But  ye  ain't  'bleeged  ter  tell  chillun  errytliing.  So 
I  tuck  little  Marse  Hal  by  de  ban'  an'  led  ^im  out 
in  de  lane,  an'  played  wid  'im,  an'  talked  ter  'im, 
jist  ter  git  his  mine  off  de  anguls.  Lord  amassy ! 
be  looked  jist  lack  a  little  angul  bisse'f.  Dat  he 
did! 

^''Marse  John  neber  knowed  ole  Marster  wuz 
dead  untwel  he  wuz  done  an'  bur'ied.  When  he 
do  come  home,  he  fotch  'is  Yankee  wife  wid  'im. 
But  'peered  lack  she  wa'n't  neber  satisfied  in  dese 
parts.  Marse  John  say  she  pinin'  fer  de  Norf. 
So  a'ter  erwhile  he  tuck  'er  home;  an'  dey  ain't 
come  back  heer  ter  lib  no  mo'. 

"Dat  same  summer  Marse  John  went  erwav,  dat 
blessed  chile,  little  Marse  Hal,  whar  we  all  sot 
our  hearts  on,  'gun  ter  jist  pine  erway,  an'  wilt, 
lack  er  tender  plant  dat  de  hot  sun  an'  de  rough 
winds  is  too  much  fer.  Yes,  sar,  he  jis'  'gun  ter  pine 
an'  pine,  an'  say  he  tired  all  de  time,  an'  'peered  lack 
his  skin  got  whiter  an'  his  blue  eyes  bigger  an' 
solumer  erry  day.  At  fust  we  didn't  git  so  mighty 
oneasy,  but  at  last  we  seed  he  wuz  dang'ous.  Den 
we  all  'gin  up  err}i:hing,  an'  some  un  us  sot  by 
'im  night  an'  day.  We  kotch  erry  word  he  said, 
an'  watched  erry  breath  he  drawed,  an'  erry  sweet 
smile  dat  lit  up  dem  precious  eyes.  We  done  all 
we  could,  an'  de  doctor,  he  come  erry  day  and  done 
all  Tie  could;  but  dat  sweet  chile  wuz  too  tender 
an'  lovin'  an'  good  fer  dis  worl',  an'  de  Lord 
wanted  'im  up  dar  wid  him;  an'  I  knowed  ole 
marster  couldn't  neber  be  satisfied  twell  he  geth- 
ered  'im  in  his  arms  once  mo'.  I  sot  by  dat  bed 
many  er  time,  an'  ergin  an'  ergin  dem  words  er 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  65 

little  Marse  Hal,  ^bout  axin'  de  anguls  ter  take 
him,  too,  ^kaze  his  Pa'd  be  so  lonesum  widout  him, 
come  back  ter  me ;  an^  well  I  knowed  dis  heer  heart 
wuz  'bleeged  ter  break.  Yes,  sar,  well  I  knowed 
how  sad  an'  lonesome  hit  gwine  ter  be  when  de 
siinsliine  had  all  lef ,  an'  de  shaders  fell. 

"De  night  he  died  we  all  gethered  ^roun'  de 
bed.  De  winders  stood  open,  an'  de  air  wnz  sweet 
wid  de  smell  er  roses  an'  honeysuckle  an'  jessa- 
min. 

"Dar  all  'roun'  de  do',  and  in  de  po'ch,  an'  un- 
der de  winders,  stood  piles  an'  piles  er  darkies, 
lack  gre't,  black  clouds  'g'inst  de  moonlight  what 
flooded  de  whole  worl',  lack  de  sky  done  open  so 
we  kin  se  de  light  whar  shine  'round  de  gre't 
White  Throne. 

"Errybody  had  sot  der  heart  on  little  Marse 
Hal;  an'  de  tears  an'  de  sobs  er  white  an'  black 
showed  how  dear  he  wuz  ter  all.  An'  dar  he  lay 
wid  'is  bref  commin'  hard,  an'  'is  eyes  haf  shet, 
an'  'is  face  mos'  ez  white  ez  de  piller  whar  his 
head  wid  de  purty  yaller  curls  wuz  restin'  'g'inst. 
Presney  he  open  'is  eyes  right  wide,  an'  er  sweet 
smile  lit  up  his  face. 

"  ^I  hears  de  anguls  comin',  says  he.  TJisten ! 
See!' 

"Den  he  shet  dem  sweet  blue  eyes  an'  Jine  dat 
angul  band,  smilin'  all  de  time.  An'  dat  smile 
neber  lef  'is  face;  it  wuz  dar  a'ter  he  wuz  dead. 

"Did  I  say  dead,  marster?  Marse  Hal  ain't 
dead !  he  comes  in  de  nighttime  an'  talks  ter  me. 
He  don't  lay  off  ter  let  me  fergit  'im.  De  bu'ds 
in  de  trees  sing  ter  me  erbout  'im;  an'  in  all  de 
blue  flowers  I  see  dem  sweet  blue  eyes,  an'  de  yal- 


66  The    Eyrie, 

ler  ones  fetch  back  dem  curls.     !N'o,  sar !     He  don't 
lay  off  ter  let  me  fergit  ^im. 

"You  say  you  wants  ter  heer  de  rest,  marster? 
Well,  den,  de  nex'  thing  comes  de  far'.  When  dat 
big  house  ketched  erfar'  an'  bu'nt  up,  hit  wuz  er 
turrible  sight.  But  dat  wuz  de  een'  er  de  wust 
trouble.  Right  smart  while  'fo'  dat,  Marse  Seth 
been  studyin'  law,  an'  useter  'cite  ter  er  lawyer  dar 
ter  town.  A'ter  er  while  he  writ  er  book,  an' 
made  piles  er  money.  Den  he  went  ter  er  mighty 
doctor  dar  ter  New  York,  what  koured  all  kinds 
er  cripples.  He  kept  er  stayin'  dar  ter  New  York 
an'  writ  back  de  doeter  'peared  ter  be  helpin'  'is 
knee.     Dat's  all  he  writ. 

"One  day  Miss  Kate  wuz  settin'  on  de  front 
po'ch,  an'  I  wuz  wuckin'  in  de  flower  garden,  when 
presney  we  look  an'  see  Marse  Seth  comin'  up 
on  hossback.  I  started  ter  go  an'  'sist  'im  ter  'light ; 
but,  bless  yo'  soul,  'fo'  I  git  dar  he  wuz  on  de 
groun'  er  walkin'  to  de  house  widout  no  krotches 
er  nuffin'.  I  stood  right  still  er  lookin'  at  'im 
wid  'stonishment ;  but  Miss  Kate  jumped  up  an' 
run  out  ter  meet  'im. 

^Oh,  Seth,  I's  so  glad,'  says  she. 
^He  jest  tuck  er  right  in  'is  arms  an'  kissed 
her  time   an'  ergin.     Den  we  went  in  de  house 
tergedder  an'  all  had  er  mighty  'joicin'  'kaze  Marse 
Seth  got  well. 

"An'  den  de  nex'  thing  come  de  weddin';  an' 
nobody  neber  seed  no  sweeter  bride  dan  Miss  Kate. 
Dat  night  dey  wuz  walkin'  'mongst  de  flowers  an' 
de  moon  wuz  ez  bright  ez  day.  Dey  stopped  by 
de  lilac  bush,  an'  I  heered  Marse  Seth  tell  'er  dat 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  67 

he  wuz  de  happiest  man  in  de  worF.  She  looked 
up  in  'is  face  wid  er  sweet  smile,  an'  say : 

"  ^An'  I  am  de  happiest  woman.  But,  Seth/ 
says  she,  ^I  would  er  had  ye  long  ergo  ef  ye  had 
axed  me.' 

"  'Heb'n  bless  you/  says  he,  er  puttin'  'is  arm 
erroun'  her,  an'  den:  'You  know  why  I  didn't, 
dear,'  says  he.  'You  knows  dat  I  has  lubed  you 
fer  years  an'  years — always,  in  fact,  altho'  I  did 
not  speak.' 

"  'Yes,  Seth,  I  knows,'  says  she.  An'  she  did, 
too. 

"Women  folks  is  cur'ous  creeters.  'Pears  lack 
dey  kin  look  right  inter  er  man's  eyes  an'  read 
what's  writ  do^n  deep  in  'is  heart,  widout  his  sayin' 
er  word.     Dey  sho'ly  is  hard  ter  fool. 

"Dat's  er  long  time  ergo,  but  I  thinks  erbout 
dem  days  mighty  of 'en;  an'  sometimes  I  wishes 
I  wiiz  back  dar  in  de  ole  times.  Yes,  sar,  right 
back  dar,  'mongst  all  our  folks,  wid  little  Marse 
Hal  er-playin'  'roun'  my  knee.  I  ain't  neber  lubbed 
nobody  good  ez  I  do  dat  chile.  'Pears  lack  I  kin 
see  'im  yit,  wid  'is  purty  yaller  curls,  an'  'is  sof, 
white  skin,  an'  dem  solum  blue  eyes,  wid  dat  lit- 
tle tear-drop  alus  in  de  corner.  I  gits  ter  study- 
in'  sometimes,  an'  I  wimders  how  dat  chile  looks 
in  heb'n.  But  one  thing  I  Jcnotvs:  Dar  ain't  no 
angul  up  dar  got  no  brighter  crown  dan  de  purty 
gole  curls  er  little  Marse  Hal." 


68  The    Eyrie, 


VIII. 

POEMS. 

By  Bettie  Freshwater  Pool. 


ANGEL  OF  MY   GETHSEMANE. 

Angel  of  my  Gethsemane, 

0,  hear  my  pleading  cry  to  thee! 

My  life  falls  dead,  my  faith  grows  dim. 

E'en  God  forsakes — why  turn  to  him? 

The  shadows  gather,  darkness  deep 

Is  closing  round  me;  keep,  oh,  keep 

My  hand  in  thine  and  comfort  me. 

Angel  of  my  Gethsemane. 

Angel  of  my  Gethsemane, 
0,  let  me  show  my  heart  to  thee! 
My  heart  that  bleeds,  and  breaks,  and  dies- 
Turn  not  away  thy  pitying  eyes ! 
Their  light  so  tender,  warm  and  true. 
Falls  on  my  soul  like  morning  dew, 
Heal  with  thy  touch  of  S3'mpathy, 
Angel  of  my  Gethsemane. 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  69 

Angel  of  my  Gethsemane, 

I  feel  'twas  God  who  sent  me  thee; 

Thy  message  sweet  doth  comfort  bring, 

There's  balm  of  healing  on  thy  wing; 

My  star  of  hope  will  rise  again; 

Thy  ministry  is  not  in  vain. 

'Tis  Christ's  own  voice  that  speaks  thro'  thee, 

Angel  of  my  Gethsemane. 

Angel  of  my  Gethsemane, 

0,  let  me  kneel  and  break  for  thee 

My  box  of  alabaster  sweet. 

And  pour  its  perfume  at  thy  feet; 

And  let  the  incense  swiftly  rise 

To  highest  heights  of  yonder  skies, 

TVHiose  morning  light  now  breaks  for  me. 

Angel  of  my  Gethsemane. 

SUMMER  TWILIGHT. 

The  sun  sank  low,  and  the  twilight  fell. 
The  shadows  deepened  on  hill  and  dell ; 
The  evening  star,  with  its  soft,  clear  light, 
Gleam'd  like  a  gem  on  the  brow  of  night. 

The  roses  nodded  and  went  to  sleep. 
The  moon-flower  op'ed  her  eye  to  peep, 


70  The    Eyrie, 

With  timid  glance  at  the  silver  sheen 
Of  night's  majestiC;,  glorious  queen. 

The  rivulet  hushed  its  'plaining  song, 

As  it  flowed  the  lilies  pale  among, 

And  touched  their  lips  with  sweet  caress, 

And  warmed  their  hearts  with  love's  impress. 

The  elm  trees  whispered  soft  and  low, 
The  fireflies  flashed  their  ambient  glow. 
The  song  of  the  mock  bird,  sweet  and  clear. 
Woke  the  slumb'ring  echoes  far  and  near. 

The  sheep  lay  down  in  their  pastures  green. 
The  kine  returned  to  their  homes  serene, 
And  darkness  fell,  like  a  sombre  veil. 
O'er  field  and  meadow,  hill  and  dale. 


THE  WILL-O'-THE-WISP. 

My  home  is  in  bogs  and  morasses, 
I  hide  me  away  from  the  light. 

The  broad  glare  of  day  never  sees  me, 
I  venture  not  out  save  at  night. 

I  am  light  as  the  air 

As  I  dance,  as  I  float. 
And  my  form  is  as  fair 

As  a  fairy's  bright  boat. 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  71 

I  glide  in  and  out  like  a  phantom. 
Some  fear  me,  and  many  admire. 

Flee  not  when  I  come  or  I  follow. 
Pursue  me  and  I  will  retire. 

Fm  a  spirit  of  night 

In  a  form  strange  and  weird. 

In  my  breath  there  is  blight, 

Plants  and  flowers  I  have  seared. 

In  many  a  legend  and  romance 
A  place  of  importance  I  hold, 

And  theme  I  have  been  for  the  poet, 
In  ages  and  countries  untold. 

Though  I  hide  in  a  fen 

In  the  damp  and  the  dark, 
I  allure  many  men 

By  my  meteor  spark. 

OUE  FLOWEE  AND  STAR. 

As  some  fair  rose  that  lifts  its  head, 
To  greet  the  morning  sunlight  warm. 

But  ere  the  evening  comes  is  dead, 
Shattered  by  some  passing  storm. 
So  perished  our  flower. 


72  The    Eyrie, 

But  as  the  rose  again  will  bloom, 

And  grace  perchance  some  fairer  scene, 

In  some  bright  land  beyond  the  tomb, 
Where  storm  of  anguish  ne'er  hath  been. 
May  bloom  our  flower. 

As  some  grand  comet,  bright  and  bold. 
Eclipsing  orbs  of  lesser  light, 

Which  as  we  wond'ringly  behold 
Is  deep  engulfed  in  darkest  night, 
So  vanished  our  star. 

But  as  that  comet's  fleeting  light. 

Perchance  illumines  some  higher  sphere^j 

In  heaven  more  gloriously  bright. 
Than  when  we  gazed  upon  it  here, 
May  shine  our  star. 


DEEAMS. 

As  when  some  one  on  desert  strand 

Eemote  from  all  he  loves  on  earth. 
Sees  in  a  dream  the  happy  band 

That  erst  did  gather  'round  his  hearth. 
And  smiles  in  sleep  and  opes  his  arms, 

To  clasp  them  tight,  so  near  they  seem, 
When  fades  the  scene  with  all  its  charms. 

And  soon  he  knows  'twas  but  a  dream. 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  73 

So,  oft  across  the  silence,  dear. 

That  lies  between  thy  heart  and  mine. 
Bright  visions  of  old  joys  appear, 

Which  now  as  then  seem  half  divine; 
Again  thy  voice  sounds  in  mine  ear. 

Again  thy  glances  fondly  beam, 
But  on  my  cheek  soon  falls  a  tear. 

For  I  remember  I  but  dream. 


SOXG. 

Softly  the  breeze  murmurs  by,  love. 

And  brightly  the  wild  flowers  bloom. 
Gaily  the  birds  sing  on  high,  love. 

The  warm  air  is  filled  with  perfume. 
But  o^er  me  a  sadness  is  stealing. 

That  nought  but  thy  presence  can  cheer. 
Day  by  day  still  more  revealing. 

Without  thee  my  life  would  be  drear. 

Chorus  : 

Come  to  me,  come  to  me,  dearest  I 
If  but  in  dreams  while  I  sleep. 

Come  to  me,  come  to  me,  dearest. 
Why  do  you  leave  me  to  weep? 


74  The    Eyrie, 

Drowsy  and  sweet  hums  the  bee,  love. 

And  gently  the  stream  ripples  by, 
Green  grows  the  grass  on  the  lea,  love, 

And  fair  spreads  the  bine  sky  on  high. 
But  still  I  sit  sad  and  lonely. 

And  long  for  thy  bright  smile  in  vain. 
Thou,  dearest  one,  and  thou  only, 

Canst  bring  to  me  gladness  again. 


DE  FLEA. 

Good  Masser,  'sturb  me  not,  I  pray, 
Dus  early  at  de  break  er  day, 
Tse  had  a  very  awful  fight. 
An'  has  not  slep'  one  wink  dis  night, 
De  fleas  made  up  dey  mine,  'tis  plain, 
Ter  tackle  me  wid  might  and  main. 
I  tell  you,  sar,  der  name  is  legion, 
Dey  come  frum  all  eroun'  dis  region 
An'  sot  on  me,  untwell  I  think 
Dey  'tended  all  my  blood  to  drink. 
I  sho'ly  made  a  mighty  fight 
Ter  let  'em  know  whut  wuz  my  spite. 
But  how  dey  hopt,  an'  how  dey  bit  I 
An'  how  I  jumpt,  an'  how  I  hit! 
I  slapt  one  hur,  I  slapt  one  dare, 
Untwell  I  'gun  to  clean  dispair. 


And  Other  Southern  Stones.  75 

^Kaze  time  I  think  I  got  him  snug 

He's  gone,  dat  black  consarned  bug! 

An'  lit  somewhar'  an'  bit  ergin 

An'  made  me  jump  jes'  lack  er  pin 

Had  stuck  its  p'int  clean  throo  my  hide 

An'  come  out  on  de  tother  side. 

I  git  ez  mad  ez  I  kin  be, 

An  holler  at  dat  blessed  flea, 

An'  tell  'im  I  gwine  ketch  him  shore 

An'  mash  him  'twell  I  make  'im  roar. 

But  'pear  lack  he  ain't  got  no  year. 

Leastways,  he  'tends  dat  he  can't  hear, 

An'  keeps  on  biting  jes'  de  same, 

Untwell  he  sets  me  all  aflame. 

I  neber  was  so  flounder  flat, 

I  feels  jes'  lack  er  drownded  rat. 


LITTLE  ELSIE. 

Gently  fold  her  lily  hands, 
Softly  close  her  eyes  of  blue. 

Tenderly  on  her  fair  brow. 
Smooth  the  locks  of  golden  hue. 

Tranquilly  she  sleeps  to-night. 
Free  from  every  grief  and  pain. 

Calmly  lay  her  to  her  rest. 

On  her  soul  not  one  dark  stain. 


76  The    Eyrie, 

Early  did  she  fade  away, 

Like  some  fair  and  fragile  flower, 

Fondly  did  we  cherish  her, 

^Till  death's  chill  and  darksome  hour. 

Brightly,  like  a  sunbeam  rare, 
Shone  she  in  our  home  so  sweet, 

Darkly  now  the  shadows  fall, 
With  the  passing  of  her  feet. 


MY  DEAE  SUNNY  SOUTHLAND. 

How  dear  to  my  heart  is  the  fair,  sunny  South- 
land, 
With  its  flowers,  its  song  birds,  its  bright  hum- 
ming bees. 
With  its  clear,  winding  streams,  its  forests  prime- 
val. 
Where  the  murmuring  pine  trees  perfume  all 
the  breeze, 
How  sweet  is  the  springtime,  and  fair  early  sum- 
mer. 
When  daisies  and  buttercups  carpet  the  ground. 
When  odor  of  eglantine  mingles  with  jasmine, 
And    the    sweet-smelling    clover    is    everywhere 
found. 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  77 

My  dear  sunny  Southland, 
My  fair,  dreamy  Southland, 
My  musical  Southland, 
What  joys  here  abound. 

How  gorgeous  the  woods  in  their  autumnal  splen- 
dor. 
How  balmv  the  air,   filled  with  scent   of  late 
flowers, 
What  glorious  sunsets  are  seen  at  this  season, 
No  sun  ever  set  in  more  splendor  than  ours. 
Fit  home  for  the  poet  this  land  so  romantic, 
x4h,  what  so  inspiring  as  beauty  is  found? 
The  sigh  of  the   South  wind,  the  breath  of  the 
flowers. 
There  is  poetry,  music  in  each  sight  and  sound. 
My  dear  sunny  Southland, 
My  fair,  dreamy  Southland, 
My  musical  Southland, 
What  joys  here  abound. 


THOU  ART  SLEEPIN'G. 

Thou  art  sleeping,  thou  art  sleeping, 
In  the  cold  and  silent  tomb. 

Where  the  nightly  dew  is  steeping 
Flowers  that  o'er  thy  slumber  bloom. 


78  The    Eyrie, 

Nevermore  shall  care  oppress  thee, 
Never  shall  thy  heart  be  stirred 

By  old  memories  that  distress  thee, 
Vanished  joys,  and  hope  deferred. 

Thou  art  sleeping,  thou  art  sleeping, 

Deep  beneath  the  cumbrous  sod, 
Where  the  lov'd  ones  o'er  thee  weeping 

Waft  their  souls  in  prayer  to  God. 
Calm  is  now  thy  troubled  spirit, 

Now  thy  weary  feet  may  rest. 
Purest  joy  may'st  thou  inherit. 

With  the  ransomed  and  the  blest. 

Thou  art  sleeping,  thou  art  sleeping. 

On  the  green  earth's  quiet  breast. 
Where  the  stars  are  nightly  keeping 

Holy  vigils  o'er  thy  rest. 
All  life's  sorrows  now  are  ended. 

All  its  toil  and  strife  are  o'er; 
May  thy  spirit  be  attended 

By  bright  angels  evermore. 


THE  GEIPPE. 

Parody  on  "The  Bells." 

See  the  people  with  the  grippe, 
Hateful  grippe ! 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  79 

How  the  doctor  comes  and  goes, 

On  his  repeated  trip. 
Hear  them  sneezing,  sneezing,  sneezing, 

Thro'  the  day  and  thro^  the  night. 
While  there  comes  a  dreadful  wheezing, 
That  keeps  np  its  constant  teasing 

Till  their  chests  are  sore  and  tight. 
How  they  hack,  hack,  hack. 
With  a  pain  in  head  and  back, 
Making  wild  expostulations. 
As  their  medicine  they  sip. 
To  the  grippe,  grippe,  grippe,  grippe. 

Grippe,  grippe,  grippe. 
To  the  racking  and  the  hacking, 

Of  the  grippe. 

See  the  children  with  the  grippe. 

Spiteful  grippe ! 
What  a  world  of  doleful  sobbing,. 
As  they  feel  the  nip ! 
On  the  silent  air  of  night, 
How  they  yell  out  their  affright. 
Like  fierce  tempestuous  gales. 

All  in  tune. 
What  a  fearful  noise  assails 
The  poor  mother  as  she  listens. 
While  she  hails 

Death  a  boon. 


8o  The    Eyrie, 

Oh !  from  thro'  the  open  doors, 

What  a  gust  of  shrieks  and  screams 

Voluminously  pours! 

How  they  sip,  how  they  rip 

With  rage  ajid  pain. 

What  a  flip  they  now  must  take. 

What  a  dip. 

To  stop  the  aching  and  the  breaking, 

Of  the  grippe,  grippe,  grippe. 

Of  the  grippe,  grippe,  grippe,  grippe^ 

Grippe,  grippe,  grippe. 
Stop  the  darting  and  the  smarting 

Of  the  grippe. 

See  the  women  with  the  grippe^ 

Dreadful  grippe ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror  is  revealed 

By  eye  and  lip ! 
In  the  patient  doctor's  ear 
How  they  pour  out  all  their  fear, 
Too  much  terrified  to  sleep 
They  can  only  weep,  weep 

Out  of  tune. 
In  a  clamourous  appealing 
For  some  relieving  plaster. 
With  frantic  exclamation. 
They  demand  a  mustard  plaster. 
Weeping   faster,   faster,   faster. 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  8i 

Now  the  doctor,  now  the  pastor, 
They  consult  with  hope  and  dread. 
Tossing,  tumbling  on  the  bed. 
Till  overcome  with  fear  they  swoon. 

Oh,  the  grippe,  grippe,  grippe. 
How  much  physic  they  must  sip 

For  relief ! 
How  they  mix  and  drink  and  scold. 
How  they  try  to  cure  this  cold. 
That  has  brought  them  so  much  agony. 

And  grief, 
'^et  the  heart  it  fully  knows. 
By  the  changes 

And  the  ranges  "  • 

How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows." 
And  the  briny  tears  still  drip 
At  the  wearing  and  the  tearing, 
As  the  dangers  rise  and  slip, 
"At  the  sinking  and  the  swelling 
Of  the  anger'^  of  the  grippe. 
Of  the  grippe,  grippe,  grippe,  grippe. 

Grippe,  grippe,  grippe. 
Of  tlie  gnawing  and  sawing 

Of  the  grippe. 


See  the  men  folks  with  the  grippe. 
Awful  grippe ! 


82  The    Eyrie, 

What  a  world  of  fuss  and  fume 

As  they  their  glasses  tip, 

*'In  the  silence  of  the  night, 

How  we  shiver  with  affright 

At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone. 

For  every  sound  that  floats 

From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan/^  • 

And  the  demon,  oh,  the  demon, 
Eecognized  by  man  and  woman^ 

In  their  brain. 
And,  who,  beating,  beating,  beating, 
With  all  his  might  and  main 
Feels  a  glory  in  so  treating 
These  poor  men  with  ache  and  pain. 
He  has  neither  heart  nor  feeling 
And  their  senses  he  keeps  stealing 

Till  they're  gone. 
And  he  hammers  and  he  grinds. 

And  he  winds,  winds,  winds. 
Their  brains  up  in  the  grippe, 
And  with  merry  hop  and  skip. 
He  tramples  in  the  grippe. 
Ever  lashing  with  his  whip. 
Leaping  high,  high,  high. 
With  a  whoop  and  with  a  cry. 
How  he  maddens  them  with  grippe. 

With  the  grippe, 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  83 

Leaping  high,  high,  high, 
With  black  malice  in  his  eye, 
How  he  crazes  them  with  grippe. 
With  the  grippe,  grippe,  grippe. 
How  he  dazes  them  with  grippej» 
Leaping  high,  high,  high. 
With  a  trip,  trip,  trip. 
And  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 
How  he  dances  to  the  grippe, 
To  the  grippe,  grippe,  grippe. 
To  the  grinding  of  the  grippe. 

Of  the  grippe,  grippe,  grippe, 
To  the  slashing  and  the  smashing 

Of  the  grippe. 


IN  GOD'S  HANDS. 

All  things  are  in  God's  hands, 

Life  and  death  and  joy  and  sorro'w; 
All  things  obey  his  high  commands. 

He  fashions  each  to-morrow. 
All  things,  however  great  or  higH, 

All  things,  however  small  or  low. 
Are  marked  by  his  unslumb'ring  e3^e. 

As  countless  ages  come  and  go. 


84  The    Eyrie, 

Spirit  omnipotent  and  infinite, 

The  mind  of  man  can  never  fathom  thine! 

Thou  rulest  in  thy  glory  and  thy  might. 

And  we  must  needs  obey  thy  laws  divine. 

—I 
But,  oh,  thou  art  a  King 

Whose  chief  est  attribute  is  love; 
Then  will  we  all  thy  praises  sing, 

Angels  chant  them  up  above.  , 

Through  all  the  blinding  pain  that  comes 

Show  us  the  purpose  of  thy  grace, 
Eeveal  thou  througl:^  the  darkest  storms. 

The  shining  glory  of  thy  face. 
As  through  a  glass  we  now  but  darkly  see. 

And  thy  designs  can  only  feebly  trace; 
But  thou  hast  promised  in  eternity, 

We  shall  see  all  things  clearly  "face  to  face. 

Soon  life's  short  race  is  run. 

Gone  by  the  evils  that  betide. 
Beyond  a  new  life  is  begun. 

0,  Heavenly  Father,  be  out  guide. 
Direct  us  in  the  paths  of  right, 

While  here  our  wayward  footsteps  stray. 
Increase  our  love.     Let  faith's  pure  light. 

Shine  as  a  star  above  our  way. 
When  we  at  last  have  burst  the  bonds  of  time, 

And  rise  to  thy  fair  realms  of  fadeless  light. 
We'll,  in  the  joyful  peace  of  that  bright  clime. 

Forget  the  dreary  darkness  of  earth's  night. 


y> 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  85 

MY  LOVE  IS  ALL  AROUND  THEE. 

My  love  is  all  around  thee, 

A  mystic,  magic  spell. 
A  flood  of  golden  sunshine. 

Wherein  no  dark  may  dwell. 
Life's  storms  may  gather  round  thee, 

Heed  not  the  tempest's  roar, 
My  love  will  be  the  beacon 

That  guides  thee  safe  to  shore. 

My  love  is  all  around  thee ; 

N"o  evil  can  come  near, 
Not  all  the  powers  of  darkness, 

In  league  could  harm  thee,  dear. 
Temptation's  siren  voices. 

May  call  thee  day  and  night. 
My  love  will  be  the  anchor, 

That  moors  thee  to  the  right. 

Mv  love  is  all  around  thee ; 

E'en  in  death's  darksome  hour, 
^Twill  shed  its  perfume  o'er  thee, 

Like  some  sweet  fadeless  flower. 
And  bv  the  crvstal  river, 

More  deathless  than  a  star, 
Love's    flower   will   bloom    immortal 

When  we  have  ^'crossed  the  bar.*' 


86  The    Eyrie, 


IX. 

THE  MONSTROSITY. 


By  Gastox  Pool. 


Part  I. 


One  morning  in  August,  as  I  was  sipping  a  glass 
of  Hock  to  steady  my  nerves  after  a  swell  banquet 
at  Delmonico's,  the  following  telegram  was  handed 
me: 

"Mobile,  Ala.,  August  16,  1878. 
To  John  Loring, 

Manhattan  Club, 
New  York  City. 

I  am  critically  ill.  Business  of  importance.  Come 
at  once.  Arthur  Boswell." 

I  read  the  message  carefully,  and  arrived  at 
this  conclusion :  The  old  gentleman,  my  scape- 
grace uncle,  was  about  to  die  and  leave  me  his  for- 
tune. 

Arthur  Bos  well,  my  mother's  uncle,  had  in  '48, 
committed  a  felony.  He  fled  from  his  home  to 
escape  the  penalty  of  the  law,  and  for  two  years  led 
the  life  of  a  fugitive  in  the  great  Dismal  Swamp. 

About  the  year  1850,  he  went  to  Mobile.  Here 
he  had  amassed,  by  precarious  methods,  a  large 
fortune. 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  87 

I  had  never  seen  my  delectable  granduncle,  this 
degenerate  scion  of  a  noble  stock,  but  had  heard  his 
history  from  my  father. 

You  may  be  sure  I  had  no  wish  to  soothe  the  dy- 
ing hours  of  my  decrepit  relative;  but  here  was 
an  opportunity  not  to  be  lost.  I  seized  it  by  the  fore- 
lock, and  was  the  same  day  on  my  way  to  the 
beautiful  city  on  the  Gulf. 

It  was  night  when  I  arrived  in  Mobile,  but  a 
drive  of  twenty  minutes  brought  me  to  my  uncle's 
residence.  A  withered  negro  crone  received  me 
at  the  door,  and  showed  me  into  a  large  room  which 
opened  on  the  hall  from  the  right.  The  room  was 
meanly  furnished.  The  straggling  remains  of  a 
straw  matting  clung  to  the  floor  in  spots.  The 
old,  faded  fustian  curtains  gave  forth  a  heavy, 
musty  odor ;  and  the  table,  horse-hair  sofa,  and  few 
chairs  which  completed  the  interior  decorations, 
were  rickety  and  wormeaten.  A  small  kerosene 
lamp,  whose  dismal  light  struggled  through  a  very 
dirty  chimney,  served  to  make  the  darkness  visible. 

The  house  (I  discovered  afterward)  was  old  and 
dilapidated.  It  was  two  stories  high  and  con- 
tained eight  rooms.  Two  wide  central  passages — 
one  above,  the  other  below  stairs — divided  the 
mansion  exactly  into  halves;  and  upon  these  halls 
the  upper  and  lower  rooms  opened  respectively. 
A  spacious,  old-fashioned  porch,  and  a  balconv 
above  shaded  by  huge  red  cedars,  afforded  a  cool 
retreat  durino;  the  hot  weather.  The  vard  was 
large,  and  contained  several  outbuildings,  all  in 
a  tumble-down  condition. 

When  I  had  finished  a  very  meager  supper,  the 
harridan  conducted  me  to  my  uncle's  apartment, 


88  '  The    Eyrie, 

the  second  room  to  the  left  on  the  second  floor. 
The  wide,  empty,  resounding  halls  were  involved 
in  Cimmerian  blackness.  I  could  see  nothing — ■ 
could  only  follow  the  echoing  footsteps  of  the  hag. 

When  we  reached  the  room  the  old  woman  mut- 
tered in  my  ear:  "Don^t  be  frightened.  They 
won't  hurt  you  ;^^  and  threw  open  the  door. 

I  was  instantly  blinded — completely  overwhelmed 
— by  the  flood  of  dazzling  light  which  enveloped 
me.  At  the  same  moment  a  violent  uproar  smote 
upon  my  ears. 

In  two  or  three  minutes  my  eyes  became  accus- 
tomed to  the  light,  and  I  advanced  into  the  room. 

The  walls  were  done  in  azure  with  gold  trim- 
mings, and  hung  with  a  few  fine  oil  paintings. 
The  furniture  was  upholstered  in  blue  and  gold 
' — an  arabesque  design  on  a  blue  ground — to  match 
the  walls  and  ceiling.  Persian  and  Turkish  rugs 
were  scattered  about  the  floor,  which  was  waxed 
over  a  hard  oil  finish.  The  curtains  of  blue  and 
gold  brocade  were  artistically  draped  about  the  tall 
windows.  Blue  and  gold  prevailed  in  the  tone 
of  the  bed-hangings,  the  easy-chairs,  and  a  Japan- 
ese lacquered  table  which  stood  near  the  center  of 
the  room.  A  powerful  arc  lamp,  of  four  hundred 
candle-power,  depended  from  the  ceiling,  and  glared 
with  burly  brightness  through  the  apartment. 

The  old  man  was  reclining  on  a  small  Turkish 
divan,  rich  with  Oriental  embroideries.  His  two 
dogs  lay  crouched  beside  him  on  the  skin  of  some 
wild  jungle  beast,  snarling  and  growling  fearfully. 

One  was  a  bulldog  of  enormous  size,  deep- 
mouthed,  wide-chested  and  tawny.  The  bristles 
of  his  neck,  now  standing  erect  in  his  angry  trans- 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  89 

port,  were  long,  thick  and  shaggy,  and  resembled 
the  mane  of  an  African  lion.  His  bloodshot  eyes 
gleamed  with  a  lurid  fire;  his  tail  oscillated  with 
repressed  rage;  his  terrible  fangs  gnashed  threat- 
eningly. The  other  was  a  pure-bred  bloodhound, 
not  so  fierce;  but  there  was  that  in  his  determined 
aspect,  his  deeply-divided  nostrils,  his  hanging 
jaws  and  his  somber  glance  which  might  well  ter- 
rify the  bravest.  Heavy  steel  collars,  to  which  were 
attached  strong  chains,  encircled  the  necks  of  these 
formidable  body-guards.  These  chains  their  mas- 
ter held  in  his  hands,  and  restrained  by  word  and 
gesture  their  impatience  at  my  intrusion. 

The  owner  of  the  dogs,  reposing  nonchalantly 
on  the  Turkish  divan,  was  a  tall,  spare  man,  whose 
age  it  would  be  difficult  to  determine.  Over  his 
angular  jaws  and  sharp  chin  the  sallow  skin  was 
tightly  drawn,  but  his  lorehead  was  embossed  with 
numberless  wrinkles.  His  iron-gray  hair,  of 
which  he  had  an  abundance,  was  close-cut  behind 
and  brushed  up  in  the  pompadour  style.  His  pale, 
gray  eyes  looked  out  under  heavy  brows.  He  was 
clean-shaven,  and  a  chronic  sneer  lurked  in  the 
lines  about  his  mouth.  His  hands  were  delicate 
and  well-kept,  and  his  feet  gracefully  modeled. 
He  wore  a  black  China  silk  dressing-gown,  em- 
broidered with  yellow  chrysanthemums,  a  low-cut 
white  silk  vest,  black  pantaloons,  white  tie  and  dia- 
mond-studs. Turkish  slippers  and  a  scarlet  fez 
completed  his  costume  and  revealed  his  Oriental 
tastes. 

"So  you  are  my  nephew,  John  Loring?"  said 
my  uncle,  in  a  high,  thin  voice.  "Heaven  knows 
I  am  glad  to  see  you.     This  seems  a  strange  recep- 


90  The    Eyrie, 

tion,  I  know,  but  yon  must  make  allowances,  my 
dear  sir — you  must  make  allowances  for  the  vaga- 
ries of  an  old  man.  These  dogs  are  the  best  friends 
I  have  in  the  world.  They  love  me,  they  fear 
me,  they  protect  me.  And  I  return  their  affec- 
tion.    Am  I  not  right,  sir?'^ 

I  replied  that  nothing  could  be  more  natural. 

"Cerberus  sleeps  in  this  room,  and  Argus  in 
the  hall  below.  Oh,  you^ll  soon  get  acquainted 
with  them,"  laughed  the  old  man.  "Throw  a  sop 
to  Cerberus,  and  you'll  easily  propitiate  him.  He 
differs  from  his  Plutonic  prototype  in  having  but 
one  head,  but  his  reasoning  powers  are  much  bet- 
ter developed  than  were  those  of  the  triple-headed 
guardian  of  Pluto's  dominions.  He  knows  his 
friends  and  mine.  In  a  little  while  he  will  rec- 
ognize you  as  a  kinsman.  Observe  his  frontal 
development,  his  corrugated  brow,  the  seat  of  the 
reason,  and  his  intellectual  expression. 

"I  told  3'ou  I  had  business  of  importance  to  com- 
municate— and  I  have.  But  to-morrow  I  will  ex- 
plain myself.  You  are  tired.  I  will  ring  for 
Sarah  to  show  you  to  your  room,"  and  he  touched 
an  electric  bell. 

By  this  time  the  dogs  had  become  reconciled  to 
my  presence  in  the  room,  and  had  ceased  their 
hostile  demonstrations.  Taking  advantage  of  their 
quiescence,  my  uncle  dropped  the  chains  he  had 
been  holding,  rose  from  the  sofa,  and  advanced 
with  stately,  though  feeble  steps  to  shake  hands 
with  me  before  I  retired. 

As  his  nervous  hand  closed  on  mine  in  cordial 
grasp — the  first  opportunity  we  had  had  of  ex- 
changing this  courtesy — ^his  hard  lips  relaxed  in 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  91 

a  genial  smile.     I  saw  I  had  made  a  favorable  im- 
pression. 

"Can  I  do  anj^thing  for  you  before  retiring?" 
I  said. 

"Xothing,  thank  yon.  Sarah  and  the  dogs  will 
take  care  of  me.  I  shall  let  you  know  when  you 
can  be  of  service. 

"We  must  mend  our  fare,  Sarah — and  give  him 
the  best  bed-chamber.  Remember  that  my 
nephew,  John,  is  the  darling  of  the  New  York' 
clubs,  and  we  must  do  what  we  can  to  make  him 
comfortable. 

"Come  to  me  at  ten  in  the  morning,"  he  said, 
addressing  me. 

I  promised  to  be  promptly  on  hand,  and  we 
parted  for  the  night. 

Sarah  led  the  way  across  the  hall  to  the  room 
opposite  my  uncle's.  It  was  large,  airy,  and 
plainly  but  comfortably  furnished. 

When  I  was  left  alone,  I  lighted  a  cigar,  and 
drawing  a  willow  rocker  close  to  the  window  be- 
gan to  speculate  upon  my  uncle's  eccentricities. 
I  had  not  been  long  seated  when  I  heard  the  door 
opposite  my  own  open.  This  was  immediately 
followed  by  the  bounding  of  the  two  dogs  in  the 
passage,  and  my  uncle's  voice  saying: 

"Cerberus  !  Argus  !     Do  your  duty." 

Then  they  went  down  the  stairs  in  great  leaps. 
Sarah  let  them  out  at  the  front  door,  and  they 
proceeded  to  inspect  the  premises.  They  soon  re- 
turned, but  when  admitted  into  the  house,  one  re- 
mained below  to  guard  the  front  door,  while  the 
other  took  his  place  at  the  bedside  of  his  master. 
I  learned  afterward  that  this  nightly  inspection  was 


92  The    Eyrie, 

never  omitted.  The  next  morning  at  ten  o'clock 
sharp,  I  presented  myself  in  my  nncle^s  apart- 
ments. 

He  received  me  graciously,  saying: 

"Good  morning,  John.  I  hope  yon  slept  well. 
I  had  rather  a  bad  night.  The  pain  in  my  kid- 
neys troubled  me  a  good  deal.'^ 

I  told  him  I  had  slept  tJie  sweet  sleep  of  the 
innocent,  and  expressed  concern  at  his  physical 
condition. 

"Yes,  I  am  likely  to  die  any  day.  I  have  al- 
ready lasted  longer  than  my  physicians  thought 
possible.  I  have  to  be  kept  under  the  influence 
of  narcotics  nearly  all  the  time.  I  am  going  to 
die,  John — and  soon,  very  soon.  I  am  haunted 
at  night  by  hideous  specters.  Grim  monsters  from 
the  nether  world  leer  at  me  from  the  wall.  They 
whisper,  they  giggle,  they  make  the  most  horrible 
grimaces.  Sometimes  they  beckon  me  to  join  in 
their  infernal  games — sometimes  hurl  terrible 
curses  at  my  defenseless  head." 

AVhile  describing  his  hallucinations  the  poor 
man  worked  himself  up  to  a  fearful  pitch  of  ex- 
citement. It  was  painful  to  see  the  twitching  of 
his  mouth  and  eyelids,  his  weak  tremblings,  and 
his  ghastly  pallor.  I  now  understood  why  he  kept 
that  brilliant  light  burning  all  night  in  his  room. 

I  hastily  mixed  a  glass  of  brandy  and  water, 
which  revived  him  greatly,  and  he  was  soon  him- 
self again.  I  insisted  that  the  goblins  who  haunted 
his  couch  were  mere  delusions  of  the  imagination 
— freaks  of  an  overwrought  fancy,  superinduced 
by  the  opiates  he  took. 

He  listened  to  my   arguments  with  attention, 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  93 

but  made  no  reply.  I  think,  however,  they  af- 
forded him  some  comfort. 

I  began  to  assiduously  cultivate  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Cerberus  and  Argus.  I  not  only  "threw 
a  sop  to  Cerberus"  in  the  form  of  a  mutton  chop, 
but  likewise  one  to  Argus,  to  prevent  any  jealousy 
on  his  part.  In  a  few  days  we  had  become  fast 
friends. 

One  day  my  uncle  said :  "John,  let^s  talk  busi- 
ness. I  sent  for  you  to  take  charge  of  my  af- 
fairs. I  can  get  nobody  whom  I  can  trust.  I 
have  been  worried  to  death  by  incompetent  and 
untrustworthy  agents.  You  are  my  relative — I 
have  no  friends  except  my  dogs ;  and  I  shall  make 
you  my  heir.  I  want  you  to  learn  matters  of  busi- 
ness. I  want  you  to  learn  to  make  money  and 
keep  it.  My  estate  is  large,  and  requires  manage- 
ment. I  want  to  leave  it  in  good  hands.  You 
must  take  care  of  it  and  build  it  up.  You  have 
a  lifetime  before  you.  In  thirty  years,  by  judicious 
handling,  you  may  make  it  rival  Astor's  or  Van- 
derbilfs.^' 

I  thanked  him  warmly  for  his  kind  intentions, 
and  promised  obedience  to  his  wishes. 

All  that  day  we  looked  over  books  and  papers ; 
notes,  mortgages,  stocks,  bonds  and  rent  rolls.  The 
next  day  I  went  to  work  in  earnest,  and  was  sur- 
prised to  find  that  I  rather  enjoyed  it.  In  two 
wrecks  I  had  collected  more  than  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars, and  the  old  man  was  greatly  pleased  with  my 
exertions.  For  three  months  I  worked  hard — de- 
voting myself  exclusively  to  business.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  I  was  as  familiar  with  my  uncle's  af- 


94  The    Eyrie, 

fairs  as  he  was  himself^  and  had  completely  gained 
his  confidence. 

These  three  months  had  drasr^ed  Arthur  Bos- 
well  rapidly  towards  the  grave.  He  already  looked 
like  a  dead  man ;  but  I  had  done  my  duty,  and  had 
nothing  with  which  to  reproach  myself. 

One  morning,  towards  the  latter  part  of  Novem- 
ber, I  took  Uncle  Arthur  for  a  drive.  It  was  one 
of  those  bright,  mild  days  so  often  seen  in  the 
Indian  summer  of  the  South ;  but  the  sick  man 
shivered  as  with  internal  cold.  Still  he  talked 
cheerfully,  and  seemed  in  unusually  good  spirits. 
When  we  were  passing  the  cemetery  he  bade  me 
drive  in. 

"I  want  to  show  you  my  tomb,'^  said  he. 

I  wondered  what  he  meant,  but  said  nothing. 

He  directed  me  where  to  stop,  and  I  assisted  him 
to  alight. 

Within  a  neat  iron  railing  was  a  white  mar- 
ble edifice,  built  in  imitation  of  a  Hindoo  tem- 
ple. This  exquisite  tomb  enclosed  two  massive 
marble  sarcophagi  of  ornate  design.  One  of  these 
held  the  remains  of  his  only  brother,  the  other 
was  destined  for  his  own  resting  place.  A  Smyrna 
carpet  covered  the  floor,  oil  paintings  adorned  the 
walls,  and  statues  of  heathen  goddesses  were 
ranged  on  either  side  of  the  sarcophagi. 

While  I  gazed  in  wonder  and  admiration  on 
the  beautiful  mausoleum,  my  uncle  smiled  com- 
placently, and  asked  me  if  I  could  imagine  any- 
thing more  enchanting. 

I  heaped  the  highest  encomiums  on  the  skill 
and  taste  displayed  by  the  architect  who  conceived 
and    executed    this    chef-dwuvre    in    monumental 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  95 

marble.  The  old  gentleman  seemed  highly  de- 
lighted at  m}^  enthusiasm,  and  himself  delivered 
a  paneg}Tic  on  the  beauties  of  his  tern  plum  de  mar- 
m  ore. 

"The  knowledge  that  my  dust  shall  be  consigned 
to  imperishable  marble,  and  roofed  over  by  this 
temple  of  ideal  beauty,  almost  reconciles  me  to 
the  thought  of  death,^^  he  said. 

Three  days  after  this  visit  to  the  cemetery,  Ar- 
thur Boswell  died.  By  the  provisions  of  his  will. 
Cerberus  and  Argus  were  each  granted  an  annuitv 
of  two  hundred  dollars  during  their  lives.  Except- 
ing these  annuities,  and  small  bequests  to  his  two 
servants,  I  was  the  sole  legatee. 


Part  II. 


I  NOW  found  myself  in  possession  of  property 
valued  at  three  million  dollars.  Strange  as  it  mav 
seem,  now  that  I  was  a  wealthy  man,  I  had  no 
desire  to  return  to  my  old,  idle,  aimless  life.  Mv 
views  had  changed.  I  had  imbibed  some  of  my 
uncle's  ideas,  and  was  now  fired  with  an  ambi"^ 
tion  to  swell  my  fortune  to  vast  proportions.  Dur- 
ing my  short  apprenticeship  in  the  care  of  my  un- 
cle's affairs,  I  had  developed  a  genius  for  busi- 
ness which  surprised  me.  I  found  an  active,  bus- 
tling life  much  more  agreeable  than  lounging  in 
club-rooms,  or  dawdling  at  "five  o'clock  teas." "My 
health  was  fine,  and  I  was  ready  to  begin  the  strug- 
gle for  more  millions.  After  clearing  off  my  debts 
I  settled  down  to  work  in  Mobile.  I  had  the  old 
house  thoroughly  repaired,  repainted,  and  refur- 
nished, and  decided  upon  my  uncle's  room  as  my 


()6  The    Eyrie, 

sleeping  apartment — it  being  the  pleasantest  and 
best  appointed  room  in  the  house.  Sarah  and 
Aaron,  Uncle  Arthur's  old  servants^,  remained  with 
me ;  the  dogs  occupied  their  old  quarters ;  and  I  felt 
happy  in  the  new  possession  of  my  renovated 
bachelor's  domicile. 

I  spent  three  weeks  in  N"ew  York,  on  business, 
and  on  my  return  occupied  my  new  room  for  the 
first  time.  I  was  well  pleased  with  the  improve- 
ments throughout  the  house  (which  had  been  com- 
pleted during  my  absence),  but  was  particularly 
delighted  with  my  new  bedchamber.  Here  noth- 
ing was  changed — except  that  I  had  had  a  twenty- 
four  candle-power  incandescent  globe  substituted 
for  the  powerful  arc  lamp.  The  dogs  evinced  al- 
most human  grief  at  Uncle  Arthur's  death,  but 
they  fawned  upon  me  to-night  with  evident  de- 
light at  my  return,  and  seemed  to  recognize  me  as 
their  new  master.  I  let  them  out  at  ten  o'clock 
for  their  nightly  inspection,  and  then  Cerberus  re- 
turned to  his  post  of  duty.  I  was  smoking  a 
Cubana,  and  looking  over  an  evening  paper,  when 
the  light  suddenly  went  out.  I  attributed  the  cir- 
cumstance to  an  abrupt  break  in  the  electric  cur- 
rent, through  something  amiss  with  the  machinery 
of  the  plant,  and  waited  a  few  minutes  to  see  if 
the  light  would  reappear.  In  the  meantime  I 
noticed,  by  the  light  of  the  fire,  that  Cerberus  sat 
upon  his  haunches  about  two  yards  distant,  growl- 
ing sullenly.  He  was  looking  towards  the  middle 
of  the  room,  and  a  vague  fear  dwelt  in  his  eyes. 
I  called  him  twice  before  he  came  to  my  side,  and 
even  then  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  same  spot, 
and  never  ceased  his  low  growling. 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  97 

I  spoke  to  him  soothingly,  but  he  paid  no  at- 
tention. What  could  be  the  matter?  To  see  this 
ferocious  dog,  the  Ajax  of  his  race,  quail  at  a 
shadow,  was  inexplicable. 

Becoming  impatient  to  resume  my  reading,  I 
stepped  under  the  lamp  to  see  what  was  wrong  with 
it.  As  I  did  so  a  wave  of  cold  air  came  from  the 
direction  of  the  door,  as  if  it  had  been  opened 
and  shut  noiselessly.  I  tried  the  stopcock,  and  was 
surprised  to  find  that  the  light  had  been  turned  off 
by  something  or  somebody  in  the  room.  As  the 
light  again  flashed  through  the  apartment  Cer- 
berus sprang  towards  the  door,  barking  furiously. 
I  rushed  downstairs  in  pursuit  of  what  I  took  to 
be  a  sneak  thief,  who  had  somehow  gained  an  en- 
trance to  the  room  without  my  knowledge.  But 
when  I  got  as  far  as  the  front  door  I  stopped  to 
consider.  There  was  Argus  lying  quietly  before 
the  door,  and  I  knew  the  thief  could  not  have  es- 
caped that  way  without  a  terrible  struggle  with 
the  vigilant  bloodhound. 

Cerberus  would  not  join  the  pursuit,  but  sulked 
at  his  post.  So  I  took  Argus,  and  we  made  a 
thorough  search  of  the  house  and  grounds,  but 
could  find  no  trace  of  the  miscreant. 

Eeturning  disappointed  to  my  room,  I  was  soon 
absorbed  in  an  article  on  the  race  problem. 

I  had  been  reading  more  than  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  when  the  light  disappeared  as  suddenly  and 
mvsteriouslv  as  at  first.  Thinking  to  catch  the 
marauder  this  time,  I  made  a  quick  dash  towards 
the  lamp,  but  my  outstretched  hands  grasped  only 
empty  air,  and  I  heard  a  mocking  laugh,  as  if 
at    my     discomfiture.       The    situation    was    be- 


98  The    Eyrie, 

coming  interesting.  My  "ancle's  ghosts  were  evi- 
dently taking  liberties  with  me.  It  was  plain 
that  I  could  not  depend  on  Cerberus  as  an  ally 
against  spirits  and  demons,  for  he  was  crouched 
behind  the  stove  uttering  lugubrious  growls. 

Being  naturally  fearless  and  even  reckless  in 
disposition,  I  felt  no  alarm  at  what  appeared  to 
be  a  supernatural  manifestation.  But  the  conduct 
of  Cerberus  filled  me  with  astonishment.  In  a 
little  while,  however,  his  courage  returned,  and 
he  seemed  to  feel  ashamed  of  his  former  cowardice. 

As  the  ghost  seemed  to  object  to  a  light,  I  con- 
cluded to  go  to  bed  in  the  dark.  I  put  a  38-caliber 
revolver  under  my  pillow,  thinking  I  might  have 
occasion  to  use  it  during  the  night,  by  way  of  amus- 
ing my  quondam  visitor.  I  soon  fell  into  a  sound 
sleep,  which  lasted  until  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. The  moment  my  eyes  opened  I  saw  that  a 
luminous  haze  filled  the  room.  At  the  same  time 
my  olfactories  were  saluted  with  as  foul  a  smell 
as  ever  emanated  from  a  charnel  house.  The  lu- 
minosity seemed  not  to  proceed  from  a  central 
focus,  but  generally  to  pervade  the  atmosphere. 
This  chameleon-like  vapor  assumed  varying  tones 
of  color;  shifting  from  somber  tints  of  amber  and 
drab  to  hues  gorgeous  as  the  most  brilliant  Tyrian 
dyes:  then  changing  again  to  that  peculiar  green- 
ish glow  which  the  lampyrid^e  emit  in  tropic  lati- 
tudes, it  finally  settled  into  a  pale,  blue,  sulphur- 
ous flame,  which  wreathed  itself  in  forked  tongues 
through  the  mist,  and  lapped  it  up  with  a  hissing 
sound.  The  strong  smell  of  brimstone,  mingling 
with  some  heavier,  subtler  and  more  detestable 
odor,  was  nearly  stifling  me,  and  I  started  up  to 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.  99 

open  a  window.  Just  as  I  raised  myself  to  a  sit- 
ting posture  in  bed,  I  happened  to  glance  towards 
the  stove,  and  I  could  feel  my  hair  rise  on  end 
with  horror  at  the  ghastly  spectacle  I  beheld. 

Through  the  pale  flicker  of  the  noxious  vapor, 
I  saw,  seated  in  my  armchair  before  the  fire,  a 
thing  so  gross,  so  foul,  so  strange  that  my  reason 
reeled  and  my  circulation  stopped.  A  creature  in 
the  likeness  of  a  man,  but  with  lineaments  more 
hideous,  and  deformity  more  grotesque  than  fiend 
of  hell  or  goblin  damned.  His  limbs  were  gnarled 
and  twisted  like  the  branches  of  an  oak,  an  enor- 
mous liver-colored  wen  crowned  the  top  of  his  skull 
and  gave  him  the  appearance  of  having  two  heads. 
His  lumbar  vertebrae  was  elongated  to  an  abnor- 
mal degree,  so  that  he  could  not  lean  back  in  his 
chair.  His  attitude  permitted  me  to  see  his  deep- 
sunk,  saurian  eyes,  his  beetling  brows,  his  cavernous 
jaws,  his  blubber  lips  and  his  protruding  yellow 
fangs.  His  nondescript  garments  were  old,  tat- 
tered, and  reeking  with  dank  fumes,  and  his  mis- 
shapen feet  were  encased  in  huge  felt  slippers. 

Eecovering  somewhat  from  the  shock  I  expe- 
rienced at  first  sight  of  the  apparition,  I  drew  my 
revolver,  leveled  it  at  the  head  of  the  monster,  and 
fired  five  times  in  rapid  succession.  When  the 
smoke  of  battle  cleared  away,  I  looked  eagerly  for 
my  adversary.  He  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Cer- 
berus was  obstreperous  in  his  demonstrations  of 
joy,  Sarah  hurried  in  with  a  light,  and  two  po- 
licemen quickly  followed  to  learn  the  cause  of  the 
disturbance. 

I  knew  they  would  not  believe  me  if  I  told  them 
the  truth,  so  I  lied,  telling  them  I  had  been  at- 


lOO  The    Eyrie, 

tacked  by  a  burglar.  This  statement  satisfied  the 
officers,  and  they  went  off  in  search  of  the  sup- 
posed felon,  but  Sarah  seemed  much  upest  by  the 
night's  adventure. 

Weeks  elapsed,  and  though  the  picture  of  the 
monster  was  indelibly  photographed  on  my  retina, 
I  had  lost  all  apprehension  of  a  return  of  his 
visits. 

It  was  the  12th  of  January,  1879.  I  had  con- 
cluded a  heavy  deal  in  cotton,  and  was  jubilant- 
at  the  prospect  of  gaining  twenty  per  cent.  To 
celebrate  the  day's  transaction,  I  invited  a  few 
friends  to  dine  with  me.  At  seven  o'clock  the 
guests  had  all  arrived.  There  was  Jack  Dawson, 
the  bank  clerk;  Tom  Harrigan,  the  funny  man; 
Eoland  Bledsoe,  President  Chamber  of  Commerce; 
Charlie  Loran,  the  local  poet;  James  Duke,  cot- 
ton merchant,  and  Hugh  Redpath  Abbottsfield,  edi- 
tor and  orator. 

We  were  seated  around  a  large  circular  table 
in  the  banqueting  hall,  otherwise  known  as  the  din- 
ing-room. Silver  and  cut-glass  sparkled  on  the 
board.  The  center  piece  was  a  floral  dragon 
mounted  on  an  epergne  of  chased  oxidized  sil- 
ver. The  menu  was  elaborate  and  the  conviviality 
contagious.  Toasts,  bon-mots,  jokes  and  songs  were 
the  order  of  the  night. 

"Here's  to  the  health  of  our  gracious  host,"  said 
the  cotton  factor,  rising,  and  holding  up  to  the 
light  his  glass  of  Cliquot.  "May  his  life  be  long, 
his  love  be  true,  and  his  wealth  increase." 

"And,"  added  Tom  Harrigan,  "may  his  head 
never  swell  and  his  heart  never  shrink." 

"Amen,"  quoth  the  company,  rising  to  the  toast, 


And  Other  Southern  Stones.         loi 

and  in  a  twinkling  seven  empty  glasses  struck  the 
table  with  a  clatter. 

Fast  and  frantic  grew  the  mirth,  as  the  differ- 
ent wines  circulated  around  the  board  and  through 
the  veins  of  the  imbibers. 

Charlie  Loran  gushed  over  with  poetry.  Tom 
Harrigan's  frothy  wit  bubbled  up  like  the  sparkling 
champagne.  Even  the  pompous  and  dignified 
Bledsoe  became  a  maudlin  sentimentalist.  Twelve 
times  boomed  the  brazen  bell  of  the  city  clock,  but 
it  interrupted  not  the  revelry. 

"'Tis  the  witching  hour  of  midnight/'  drawled 
Charlie  Loran.  "Look  to  yourself,  Jack,  when 
you  venture  out  on  the  frozen  boulevards  of  this 
tropic  city." 

"You  are  drunk,  Charlie  Loran,  beastly  drunk. 
I  repudiate  the  insinuation  with  scorn,"  roared 
Jack  Dawson.  And  then  he  broke  out  with  the 
following  Bacchanalian  ditty: 

''When  you  kiss  a  pretty  girl. 

And  she  goes  and  tells  her  mother, 
When  you  Inss  a  pretty  girl. 

And  she  goes  and  tells  her  another. 
May  she  live  to  he  an  old  maid. 
May  she  live  to  he  an  old  maid. 
May  she  live  to  he  an  old  maid. 
And  never  get  another. 

Chorus. 

^'Landlord,  fill  the  flowing  howl. 
Until  it  does  run  over. 
Landlord,  fill  the  flowing  howl. 
Until  it  does  run  over. 


102  The    Eyrie, 

For  to-night  we'll  merry,  merry  he. 
For  to-night  we'll  merry,  merry  he. 
For  to-night  we'll  m,erry,  merry  he. 
And  to-morrow  we'll  get  soher/' 

The  orgy  reached  its  height.  Jack  Dawson  was 
in  the  middle  of  his  song,  when  he  stopped  as  sud- 
denly as  if  he  had  been  shot.  His  jaw  dropped, 
his  cheek  blanched,  and  a  look  of  horror  grew  on 
his  face. 

"What's  the  matter,  Jack?  Have  you  got  the 
snakes?"  called  out  the  Hon.  Eedpath  Abbotts- 
field. 

"Perhaps  he  sees  a  spirit  to-night.  What  won- 
der they  have  got  into  his  imagination." 

The  object  of  their  gibes  answered  not,  but 
stared  with  dull  and  glassy  eyes  over  the  head 
of  his  vis-a-vis. 

Curiosity,  or  the  vague  apprehension  begotten 
of  another's  fear,  prompted  the  company  with  one 
accord,  to  turn  their  looks  in  the  clirection  taken 
by  the  fixed  and  baleful  gaze  of  the  horrified  bank- 
teller.  And  had  the  head  of  the  fabled  gorgon 
appeared  in  our  midst  it  could  not  have  created 
greater  consternation.  With  bristling  hair,  frozen 
eyes,  and  rigid  muscles,  their  countenances  seemed 
really  hardened  into  stone.  For  there,  in  the  room, 
within  ten  feet  of  us,  stood  the  nameless  horror 
who  had  visited  me  on  that  memorable  night  when 
I  first  slept  in  my  uncle's  chamber.  In  the  bright, 
mellow  light  diffused  by  the  wax  candles,  the 
frightful  form  of  the  monster  appeared  with  hide- 
ous distinctness.  His  ophidian  glance  traveled 
around   the  board.     He   advanced.     He  extended 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.         103 

his  right  hand,  clasping  a  glittering  tube.  A  vola- 
tile gas  escaped.  The  lights  grew  dim  and  blurred. 
The  fiend  laughed. 

It  was  then  that  I  recovered  the  power  of  speech, 
and  mustering  my  courage,  thus  addressed  the 
goblin : 

"Are  you  vampire,  spirit,  ghoul  or  demon?  and 
what  is  your  commission  upon  earth  ?  Speak ! 
though  your  voice  be  terrible  as  the  belching  of 
Vesuvius." 

"I  am  thy  father's  spirit.  Doomed  for  a  cer- 
tain time  to  walk  the  night ;  and,  for  the  day,  con- 
fined to  fast  in  fires,  till  the  foul  crimes,  done  in 
my  days  of  nature,  are  burnt  and  purged  away/' 
replied  the  spirit,  in  a  harsh  and  rumbling  voice. 

A  silence  of  some  minutes  followed  this  declama- 
tion, during  which  the  specter  seemed  buried  in 
thought.  At  last  he  broke  the  silence  with  these 
words : 

.  "Sir  Knights  of  the  Eound  Table,  your  deeds 
of  valor  and  chivalry  have  been  the  theme  of  the 
poet  and  ""h^  minstrel  for  a  thousand  years;  but 
you  did  not  know  the  great  Shakespeare — Francis 
Bacon,  some  called  him.  He  was  the  greatest  man 
who  ever  lived  execept  Dan  Eice.  The  convolu- 
tions of  Dan's  brain  enclosed  nuggets  of  wit  as 
large  as  hen's  eggs.  His  shining  ability  as  a  con- 
tortionist made  him  world-famous — and  he  ate 
himself  up  with  chopsticks. 

"Ah,  there  is  my  cousin.  King  Arthur,"  he  con- 
tinued, looking  at  me.  "Strange,  I  have  just  ob- 
served him.     But  he  is  looking  remarkably  well. 

"Gentlemen,  behold  in  me  the  uncouth  offspring 
of  a  criminal  father. 


104  The    Eyrie, 

"Here,  judge  if  hell,  with  all  its  power  to  damn, 
can  add  one  curse  to  the  foul  thing  I  am. 

"This  vile  and  loathsome  husk,  fouler  than 
Frankenstein's  demon  or  the  Veiled  Prophet  of 
Ivhorassan,  masks  the  soul  of  a  poet  and  the  gen- 
ius of  a  scientist.  I  have  delved  in  the  pro- 
fundities of  the  earth.  I  have  been  the  disciple 
of  Cagiiostro;  and  have  mastered  the  secrets  of 
esoteric  chemistry." 

So  saying,  he  took  from  an  inside  pocket  a  small 
box  containing  a  poAvder,  which  he  sprinkled  on 
the  floor.  Then  walking,  or  rather  gliding  (for, 
notwithstanding  his  misshapen  feet  his  movements 
were  singularly  lithe  and  stealthy)  in  a  circle 
around  the  powder,  he  muttered  some  mystic  in- 
cantation. In  a  moment  a  lambent  flame  sprang 
into  being.  It  rose  from  the  carpet.  It  floated 
above  our  heads.  It  was  of  the  color  of  blood.  Its 
ernbescence  ruddied  the  upturned  features  of  the 
guests. 

"You  look  with  terror  on  that  gory  flame,"  said 
the  harsh  and  hollow  voice  of  the  demon.  "Think 
what  the  lake  of  perdition  must  be,  and  I — 

"  'My  hour  is  almost  come, 

When  I  to  sulphurous  and  tormenting  flames 
Mu^t  render  up  myself  f  " 

Saying  which,  he  threw  some  subtle  fluid  on  the 
flame,  that  instantly  dissolved  it  in  a  crimson 
shower. 

The  nervous  tension  was  too  great  for  human 
endurance.  Syncope  intervened,  and  when  I  re- 
covered consciousness  I  was  alone.     An  open  win- 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.         105 

dow  near  at  hand,  revealed  the  manner  of  egress 
of  my  guests.  They  had  taken  French  leave,  I 
followed  their  example  and  leaped  from  the  win- 
dow.    I  slept  at  the  Gulf  House  that  night. 

The  next  morning  I  sent  word  to  Sarah  that 
I  should  for  the  present,  take  up  my  quarters  at 
the  hotel.  She  asked  for  an  interview,  saying  she 
had  important  communications  to  make.  Her  re- 
quest being  granted,  she  told  the  following  story, 
in  a  dialect  which  I  shall  translate : 

Twenty-six  years  previous  to  the  date  of  this 
narrative,  Arthur  Boswell  had  formed  a  liaison 
with  a  deformed  Creole,  for  whom  he  had  con- 
tracted a  strange  passion.  The  unhappy  offspring 
of  this  illicit  union  was  (as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected in  some  degree)  a  prodigious  malforma- 
tion of  nature.  A  being  so  distorted  as  scarcely 
to  bear  a  semblance  to  the  human  species.  In  pro- 
portion as  the  father  hated,  reviled  and  condemned 
him,  the  mother  lavished  upon  the  child  of  sin  the 
treasures  of  maternal  affection.  At  the  age  of 
ten  the  child  was  well  advanced  in  his  studies, 
under  the  direction  of  a  private  tutor,  whom  his 
father  grudgingly  allowed.  As  is  frequently  the 
case  in  the  compensations  of  nature,  the  deformed 
body  was  endowed  with  a  most  precocious  mind. 
His  vigorous  intellect  greedily  absorbed  the  ele- 
ments of  knowledge,  and  he  often  elicited  the  ad- 
miration of  his  tutor  by  evidences  of  a  superior 
mental  and  moral  nature.  About  this  time  that 
malignant  scourge,  yellow  fever,  claimed  for  its 
victim  the  only  friend  he  had — his  mother.  Re- 
ceived into  his  father's  house,  not  from  the  nat- 
ural sentiments  of  love  or  pity,  but  from  the  fear 


io6  The    Eyrie, 

that  the  secret  of  his  birth  might  otherwise  be 
discovered,  he  was  kept  in  the  most  rigid  confine- 
ment; being  concealed  in  tlie  attic  from  all  eyes, 
save  those  of  his  tutor,  who  daily  visited  him,  and 
Sarah,  to  whose  care  he  was  confided. 

The  boy  grew  to  be  a  man.  His  life  had  been 
devoted  to  the  cultivation  of  his  mind.  His  eru- 
dition was  profound.  He  had  mastered  the  lore 
of  the  sages  of  old.  He  was  deeply  versed  in  litera- 
ture. He  had  cultivated  the  mystic  sciences,  and 
he  was  particularly  addicted  to  experimental  chem- 
istry. The  poor  creature's  fondness  for  Sarah,  the 
only  person  (except  his  tutor)  who  showed  him 
kindness,  was  touching,  and  she  learned  to  love  him 
in  return.  The  sweet  temper,  the  docile  man- 
ners, the  pitiable  condition  of  this  being,  cursed 
and  blighted  from  his  birth,  won  from  the  good  old 
negress  sincere  sympathy  and  genuine  affection. 

As  he  grew  older  his  mind  became  morbid;  his 
long  confinement  quelled  his  spirit  and  quenched 
the  ardor  of  his  youth.  His  father's  hatred  was 
agony  to  him;  he  felt  his  intellectual  superiority, 
yet  was  denied  the  privilege  of  associating  with  his 
fellow  man.  His  maimed  and  horrible  physique 
was  a  terror  to  himself.  He  was  outcast  of  man- 
kind. He  brooded  over  a  thousand  wrongs,  real 
and  imaginary.  He  railed  at  the  injustice  of  God 
and  man. 

Gradually,  as  the  years  rolled  on,  madness  fas- 
tened upon  his  brain,  and  he  had  been  for  two 
years  hopelessly  insane. 

Shortlv  before  his  death,  mv  uncle  had  informed 
Sarah  of  his  intention  of  disinheriting  his  natural 
son,  and  making  me  his  heir. 


And  Other  Southern  Stories.         107 

Being  imwilling  to  confess  to  me  his  terrible  se- 
cret he  had  confided  to  his  old  and  valued  servant 
the  sole  charge  of  her  protege,  bequeathing  her  a 
considerable  legacy  in  consequence.  Recent  events 
had  alarmed  Sarah  for  the  safety  of  her  charge, 
and  her  conscience  nrged  her,  on  my  account  as 
well  as  his,  to  make  me  her  confidant — hence  the 
foregoing  revelations. 

The  reader  will  doubtless  have  guessed  the  iden- 
tity of  the  goblin.  The  unfortunate  son  of  Uncle 
Arthur  was  removed,  by  my  directions,  to  a  private 
asylum,  where  I  knew  he  would  receive  every  at- 
tention from  the  humane  management.  I  visited 
him  often,  and  in  his  lucid  intervals  found  him 
a  delightful  conversationalist.  His  was  as  strange 
a  case  as  was  that  of  the  famous  Elephant-man, 
the  sight  of  whom  made  women  faint  and  men  turn 
sick. 

He  died  young,  being  spared  the  pain  of  lin- 
gering in  a  world  where  he  would  always  have 
been  regarded  with  disgust  and  horror. 

Some  further  explanations  regarding  the  mys- 
terious occurrences  related  in  this  history  may 
be  necessary,  and  I  give  them  as  far  as  I  am  able. 

It  has  alreadv  been  said  that  the  movements  of 
the  monster  were  singularly  noiseless  and  stealthy, 
and  this  peculiarity,  considered  together  with  the 
facility  for  concealing  himself  in  the  attic  (which 
was  never  searched),  may  account  for  his  sudden 
and  mysterious  appearance  and  disappearance.  The 
almost  supernatural  dread  evinced  by  Cerberus  for 
the  son  of  his  master,  can  only  be  accounted  for 
on  the  ground  that  his  brute  instinct  recognized  in 
the  madman  an  implacable  enemy    (the   maniac 


io8  The    Eyrie. 

hated  the  dog)  ;  and  who  shall  say  but  that  his 
canine  soul  quailed  with  a  pseudo-human  fear  at 
the  uncanny  attributes  of  the  strange  apparition. 

As  to  the  creation  of  the  magic  and  gory 
flame  I  can  olfer  no  solution^  unless  it  be  that  the 
savant  had  discovered  the  secret  in  the  course  of 
his  learned  researches  in  esoteric  science,  or  had 
accidentally  hit  upon  it  in  his  scientific  experi- 
ments. 

It  may  be  asked  how  the  maniac  escaped  death 
at  my  hands  on  the  night  'nrhen  I  fired  five  shots 
at  him.  I  tliink  that  is  easily  explained.  Being 
half  dead  with  fright,  my  aim  must  have  been 
very  unsteady,  and  the  shots  consequently  fell 
wide  of  the  mark. 

With  these  explanations,  such  as  they  are,  I  close 
this  tale.  I  do  not  ask  the  reader  to  accept  them, 
but  to  form  his  own  conclusions  from  the  facts 
herein  set  forth. 


THE  END. 


BOOKS  YOU  MUST  READ 
SOONER   OR   LATER 


1 


Why  J>fo1  Order  f4cbip  ? 


Evelyn 

lAT Story^  of  _  the .  West  and   the   FarT  East , 

By^Mrs.  Ansel  OppE;^raEiM. 

4  Illus.    $1.50. 

Limited  edition  in  leather,  $2.00. 

:<Kbe  pr«M  bas  spokeo  of  UU  book  wltb  uoqaaUfied  term»  of  praloe. 


TheXa^st  of  the  Cav&li^rs 

By  N.  J.  Floyd. 

^9  "Drawings  and  Author's  Photo. 

$1.50. 

/"No  wiser  or  more  brilliant  pen  has  told  the  story  of 
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lof  book-lovers." 


I 


BOOKS  YOV  NVST  READ 
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Told  &t  Twilight 

By  Eva  Browne. 

Aldelightful  collection  of  stories  and  poems^, 

(^Author's  photo.) 

$1.00.. 


Job  Trotter 

By  Sylvester  Field.  > 
50c.  ^ 


A  unique  work,  proving  that  the  "earthly  paradise" 
of  the  colored  race  is  Africa.  This  book  is  decidedly 
tbe  best-  work  that  has  yet  appeared  on  the  subject. f 


TKeJ^SiA  of  Ignorance 

By  Henrietta  Siegel. 
$1.00. 

An  exceedingly  clever  story,  by  a  New  York  girl,  who 
'pictures  with  a  fearless  hand  the  domestic  misery  result- 
ing from  ^  drink  and  dissipation. 

(4  special _  drawings.) 


! 


BOOKS  YOU  MUST  R.EAD 
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Llewellyn 

A  NOVEL 

By  Hadley  S.  Kimberlinq. 

Cloth.    $1.50. 
5  Illustrations  byS.  Klarr. 

Here  is  a  story  whose  artistic  realism  will  appeal  to 
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Se^tatv  of  the  Modern  World 

By  E.  G.  Doyen.. 

l2mo,  cloth,  handsomely  produced. 

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.        ._  •  .     -  ^ 

The  title  of  this  book  will  arouse  curiosity,  and  its 

brilliant  contents  will  fully  reward  the  wide  public  which 

it  will  reach. 


A  Missourian*s  Honor 

By  W.  W.  Arnold., 

Cloth,  i2mo.    $1.00. 

3  Illustrations., 


L. 


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Ldkdy  Century 

4 

iBv  MRa  A.  Gu  Kintzei^, 
^4   Drawings   by   Hartman.^ 
Decorated  cover  in  black,  red  and  go13^ 
^$1.50. 

Critics  who  have  seen  the  book  declare  it'superior  to 
"Leave  Me  My  Honor,"  the  success  which  has  recently 
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who  has  something  to  say  and  can  say  it.' 

"Sparkling  from  cover  to  cover." 


Order  now  and  join  the  processiot»_oii  the  autumn, 
loth  edition. 


i 
i 


NAN   e,  SUE 

I  Stenographers 

"^By  Harriet  C.  Cullaton^ 

$1.00.  i 

You've  no 'doubt  heard  of  this  book  !"^  It ~ stands' att 
alone  in  the  originality  of  its  title  and  subject,  and  every- 
one knows  how  charming  a  subject  "Nan  &  Sue,  Ste- 
nographers," must  be.  It  is  the  diary  of  a  typewritings 
office  in  New  York  run  by  two  young  and  pretty  girls, 
who  have  flie  most  amusing  adventures.  The  book's  ap- 
pearance is  as  original  and  charming  as  Nan  and  Sue 
themselves. 


I 


itflH 


BOOKS  YOV  MUST  READ 
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The  Instrument  Tuned 

By  Rosa  B.  Hitt: 
Attractive  Binding,  75  cents.'. 
Limited  Edition  in  White  and  Gold,  $CjOO, 
(Author's  photo) 

I'An  able  and  interesting  work  on  a  comparatively  new 
subject — Psycho-physical  culture — of  whose  methods  the 
author  has  made  successful  application.  The  book  is  full 
of  common-sense  suggestions  and  is  admirably  adapted 
to  the  needs  of  humanity  in  general. 

The  chapter-captions  will  give  an  excellent  idea  of  the. 
comprehensive  and  practical  character  of  the  work:. 

Various  Therapeutic  Agents.^ 

Influence  of  Mind. 

Extravagant  Emotions! 

Insomnia. 

Relaxation. 

Harmony  the  Law  of  NatOTeJ 


Order  J^dtsf 

All  of  the  books  named  in  this  magazine  to  be  had 
'from  any  newsdealer,  or 


BOOKS  YOU  MUST  READ 
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A  Tale  of  the  Revolution 

Bv  WiLUBERT  Davis  and  Claudia  Brannom. 

l2mo,  cloth.     Illustrated. 

$i.oo. 

A  fascinating  story  of  the  Revolutionary  period,  in 
dramatic    form,    in    which    the    treachery    of    Benedict 
Arnold  and  the  capture  of  Major  Andre  are  the  climaxes. 
The  loves  of  Andre  and  Marcelle  (herself  a  spy)  lend  aj 
very  charming  touch  of  romance. 


The  Burton  Manor 

A  NOVEL  i 

By  Rev.  M.  V.  Brown. 
i2mo,  cloth.    $1.50. 

A  most  thoughtful,  able  and  authoritative  work  in 

Engaging  narrative  form,  dealing  with  the  existing  evils 

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his  conclusions  in  charming  fiction— or  fact? — and  thus 

the  book  will  appeal  to  a  public  as  wide  as  the  continent. 


BOOKS  YOU  NVST  READ 
SOONER.   OR   LATER 


Kew  Book  by  the  Author  of 

A  Girl  and  the  Devil ! 


We  beg  to  announce  for  autumn  a  new  novel  from 
the  pen  of  Jeannette  Llewellyn  Edwards,  entitled 

LOVE  IN  THE  TROPICS 

The  scene  of  Miss  Edwards'  new  work  is  laid  in 
strange  lands,  and  a  treat  may  be  confidently  prom- 
ised the  wide  reading  public  whose  interest  in  her  first 
book  has  caused  it  to  run  through  over  a  dozen  editions. 

LOVE  IN  THE  TROPICS" 


«• 


tifill  be    ready    about  J^O'Oetnber  1,   and 
particular's  tvill  be  duly  announced,' 


The  New  Woma.nhood 

Bv  Win XI FRED  H.  Cooley. 

$1.25. 

No  more  ongmal,  strikmg  and  brilliant  treatise  on 
the  subject  indicated  by  the  title  has  been  given  the 
vast  public  which  is  watchmg  the  widenmg  of  woman's 
sphere.  Mrs.  Cooley  is  a  lecturer  and  writer  of  many 
years  experience ;  she  is  in  the  vanguard  of  the  move- 
ment and  no  one  is  better  qualified  to  speak  to  the  great 
heart  of  womankind. 


mti^^^f- 


%JT^^«' 


\-^^ 


